THE REMITTANCE KID

J.T. EDSON

There was a lot of bad feeling left over from the War between the States, and not only between the North and South. Britain had allowed Confederate navy ships to use her ports, and after that, there wasn’t much trust between them. Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy, now with the US secret service, had discovered an anarchist plot to attack Canada from US soil, and she knew it had to be stopped. She soon found an ally in the Remittance Kid - but the Kid was working for the British… Could Belle trust him…?

Author's note:

While complete in itself, the events recorded in this volume precede those which take place in THE WHIP AND THE WAR LANCE. This was caused by the amount of information placed at my disposal from various sources making the whole of too great length to be accommodated in one book and also explains why this title is placed with the ‘Calamity Jane’ series in the chronological list. As usual, to save my regular readers from repetition and to assist all new chums, I have given Belle Boyd’s history in the form of an Appendix.

J. T. Edson,

Active Member, Western Writers of America,

MELTON MOWBRAY,

Leics. England.

CHAPTER ONE

SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU

‘Think of the absentee landlords milking their estates dry and wallowing in the lap of luxury while you were made to slave in their fields from dawn to dusk so they could live a life of ease!’ the woman on the stage shouted, her trained voice reaching with clarity to every corner of the small theatre’s auditorium despite having no artificial aids. ‘You’ve all suffered under the heel of the bloated British aristocrats and know full well what I mean!’

‘That will soon be finished!’

‘We have gathered you here tonight so we can show you how to strike back at them!’

‘If you support us, you will make it possible to drive the English oppressors out of Ireland for ever!’

About five foot nine inches in height, angular to the point of being boney, in her middle thirties, Vera Gorr-Kauphin had a thin face with prominent cheek bones, piercing dark eyes, and a chin that came to a point below thin, pallid lips from which issued a voice which was harsh and far from sensual. Her features might have been at least passably good looking if they had not borne an expression of fanatical zeal that was repelling in its chilling intensity. Nor did having her mousy brown hair taken back in a tight bun do anything to make her more attractive. Whatever poise, elegance or charm her figure might possess was effectively screened by the severely plain black dress she wore and from beneath which showed a pair of blunt-toed, low heeled, almost masculine looking shoes. She did not even wear any of the jewellery with which many people in her walk of life frequently adorned themselves.

Despite following the profession of an actress (if not very successfully considering her parents had attained leading status and prominence in that field) there was nothing sexually appealing about Vera. In fact, few of the all-male audience at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre - a rather bombastic name for an already somewhat rundown and seedy establishment in the Streeterville district of Chicago - would have bothered to look twice, much less stay and listen to her if it had not been for three reasons.

Firstly, although the play Vera and her company had performed was far from the theatre’s normal gamey and unrefined kind of entertainment, the subject upon which she was now declaiming with such genuine - or well simulated - passion was one that the audience found interesting.

Secondly, the new incumbent of the Church of St Augustus was standing and watching in the wings. As he had arranged for the assembled men to attend free of charge and implied he would not care for absentees, they knew he would have been incensed if any of them had followed their earlier inclination to depart in search of more salubrious relaxation. Since his arrival a week earlier, he had shown himself to be a hard arbiter of his parishioners’ conduct and was already notorious for the severity of the penances he imposed when conducting the confessional. So nobody wished to arouse his displeasure.

Lastly, certain local politicians had passed the word that they required a good attendance and had the means to ensure compliance with their desires.

‘Asking your pardon for interrupting, ma’am,’ called a voice with the kind of brogue to be expected in such company, from somewhere in the poorly illuminated auditorium, as the actress paused to study the response her oratory was eliciting. ‘But there’s something I don’t rightly understand.’

‘And what might that be, brother?’ Vera inquired, forcing herself to speak in a comradely fashion and only just managing to conceal the condescension she always felt when dealing with what - for all her often proclaimed political convictions - she regarded as her social and intellectual inferiors.

‘You’re not Irish at all,’ the speaker explained, without rising so that he might be identified. ‘If fact, I’d go so far as to say that you’re a well-off Britisher your own self. So it’s wondering I am, why do you want to help the likes of us?’

A rumble of concurrence arose from the rest of the audience. While they had been impressed by the woman’s apparent sincerity and eloquence, the question had raised a point which many of them had been considering, but had not found themselves able to express without giving offence to a person who was obviously on terms of close acquaintance with their parish’s recently appointed priest.

‘Damned stupid, ignorant clodhoppers!’ the man in the centre of the trio who were standing in the wings spat out contemptuously, his tones were educated English.

That there should be a strong family resemblance between the speaker and the woman on the stage was not surprising. Colin Gorr-Kauphin was her brother. Younger by ten years, he followed the theatrical profession with no greater ability or success than she did. Duplicating her height and build, there was nothing of her fanatical strength to his face. Rather its lines displayed weakness, a vicious nature, and a suggestion of dissipation. He was bare headed, with longish, straight, greasy brown hair. Although his brown suit, white shirt, badly knotted red tie and unpolished black shoes were of better quality than the clothing worn by the majority of the audience, they were unkempt. His shirt’s collar was so grubby that few of the men to whom he was referring so disdainfully would have thought of wearing it when attending a function of any consequence.

‘We all know they are, my dear Colin,’ answered the privileged onlooker at the right, speaking the same language fluently if with a trace of a French accent. ‘But do try to hold your voice down to something less than its usual dull roar so they won’t find out we know. They are what we have to use to carry out our great work and they won’t let themselves be used if -’

An inch shorter and about five years older than Gorr-Kauphin, Raoul Fourmies had a bulky body that was running to fat. Flowing black hair cascaded from beneath the broad-brimmed black hat worn to conceal that he was becoming bald on top. A bushy, uncombed beard hid most of his swarthily unpleasant Gallic features. Having changed from the attire he had worn in the play, he had on a rumpled dark grey suit of expensive cut and the latest European style, but his much stained frilly bosomed white shirt had no collar.

The splashes of coloured paint on his trousers and his dirty, untanned boots might have been acquired accidentally, but were in fact left as evidence that he was an artist rather than an actor and, as such, was completely disinterested in his personal appearance.

‘Shut up, both of you!’ the third member of the trio growled imperiously, glaring briefly before returning his gaze to the audience. His voice was redolent of Southern Irish middle-class origins and held the note of one used to command. ‘I want to listen to him that’s doing the interrupting.’

Six foot tall, with a powerful physique, the man who had made the demand was in his late forties and clad in the sombre attire of a Roman Catholic priest. As he had been defrocked for gross misconduct several years earlier, he was no longer entitled to wear such raiment. Clean shaven, with close-cropped iron grey hair, his face was tanned and set in bitter, unsmiling lines. Everything about his appearance gave warning that he was strong, authoritative and unforgiving of weakness in others.

Although their restless movements were indicative that Gorr-Kauphin and Fourmies resented being addressed in such a curt and unequalitarian manner, they fell silent. Much as they hated his attitude of superiority and constant implications that he had the right to give orders, past experience had taught them it was most unwise to antagonise their companion. Nor were they likely to forget it. They had only recently seen yet a further example of his completely ruthless nature and disregard for the sanctity of human life.

The body of Father Matthieu Devlin, in whose place the third man was masquerading,1 lay weighted down with chains in Lake Michigan at the bottom of a bay less than a mile to the east of Chicago. Lured to the deserted house by Vera, before he could make his first appearance in the parish to which he was going as priest, he had been murdered by the impostor. The risky and unpleasant task of disposing of the corpse had fallen upon the actor and the artist. Neither had been enamoured of the prospect, although they had not dared to refuse after seeing the cold-blooded way in which the priest’s life had been taken. So they had carried out their orders, but had thrown their burden from the boat much closer to the city than they had been instructed.

‘Why do I help, you ask?’ Vera was saying, having glared across the footlights for a few seconds in an abortive attempt to locate the man who had had the temerity to question her motives. As she went on, her tones gradually lost their asperity and regained the timbre of fanaticism they had held prior to the interruption. ‘Because it is the duty of all who care for justice to stand against the capitalists and landowning aristocratic despoilers, no matter what our race or creed might be. We must all unite to sweep such vermin out of existence. Only then will we establish a new order offering peace, prosperity and equality for all men!’

‘Would you be including spics,2 Heebs,3 bohunks,4 Swedes,5 Dutchmen,6 niggers, heathen “Chinese” and Protestants in this uniting and equality?’ challenged the speaker from the audience and, once again, there was an approving mumble which implied he was expressing sentiments common to the majority who were present.

‘Of course it includes them!’ the woman answered indignantly, failing to take a warning from the response elicited by the questions. ‘We’re all born equal. And I find the names you used when speaking of our brothers extremely distasteful!’

A low hiss of annoyance broke from ‘Father Devlin’ as he listened to Vera’s reply. He knew the kind of men with whom they were dealing. When the invitations to attend the theatre were being given out, the recipients had been selected for qualities which would preclude any possibility of sympathy with her point of view. Honest, hard working and law abiding for the most part, all were proud to proclaim their Irish origins although few had been there, and had been fed from childhood on stories calculated to ensure a dislike for the English land-owning classes. Many of them also possessed such patriotic pride that, according to some people, they regarded themselves as ‘one hundred and ten per cent’ Americans.7 They also belonged to a strata of the community which felt most strongly the competition for employment and living accommodation when there was an influx of other racial groups with similar needs. This was the vital factor which the actress, who had never found the need to compete for anything, had failed to take into consideration. Noble as suggestions that all men were born equal might sound, they stood little chance of finding favour with the audience. Particularly where members of the ethnic or religious groups who had been mentioned - and who provided their main competitors for work and dwelling places - were concerned.

‘Good for Vera!” Gorr-Kauphin enthused, oblivious of the misgivings his sister’s reply was evoking from the sombrely-dressed man at his right. ‘That’s told h - !’

‘And I told you to shut up!’ ‘Devlin’ snarled.

‘Very well!’ the actor yelped, exuding petulant and almost feminine sounding indignation. Looking at Fourmies, but receiving neither sympathy nor support, he went on, ‘I think I’ll go down and see if Marcel wants anything!’

‘You can do just what the hell you like!’ the impostor spat back savagely, tact never being his strongest point when aroused. ‘Just so you do it quietly and don’t stop me listening. That bastard who’s asking the questions doesn’t sound right to me.’

Paying no attention to Gorr-Kauphin as he stalked away in a manner intended to indicate disapproval of his treatment, ‘Devlin’ and the artist peered at the audience as carefully as the limited illumination of the auditorium permitted. The task was futile. They could barely make out the faces of the men sitting in the front row, much less see anybody further back.

‘He didn’t sound any different from the people in this district,’ Fourmies objected, after a short time had passed without further interruptions.

‘That’s because you’re not Irish!’ the impostor growled irritably, noticing there was a growing restlessness among the audience. They were not listening as attentively to the woman’s harangue on how tenants and employees were mistreated by the British land owners as they would have prior to her ill-advised comment about equality. ‘Unless I miss my guess, that bastard comes from County Londonderry.’

‘But that’s in Ireland, isn’t it?’ Fourmies inquired, showing his puzzlement.

‘It is,’ ‘Devlin’ confirmed. ‘But except for parts of “Deny”8 itself, it’s not the county in which the Pope’d be made most welcome. So - and God only knows how he got in, because it wasn’t by my inviting - I’m thinking he’s a “Joe”9 and not one of the Holy Romans at all.’

‘What of it?’ the artist asked, noticing the note of bitter mockery which always came into the bogus priest’s voice when speaking of anything connected with the Catholic faith and wondering who, or what, a ‘Joe’ might be. ‘He’s still Irish, isn’t he?’

‘God damn it, don’t you know anything?’ ‘Devlin’ snarled, glaring around with such fury that Fourmies withdrew an involuntary pace. ‘There’s devil the few Protestants would want to see the English chased out of Ireland.’

‘He might be one who does,’ the artist suggested in a placatory tone.

‘Like hell he is!’ the impostor contradicted. ‘He’s got himself in here to louse up what we’re doing.’

‘To louse u-?’ Fourmies began, but let the words trail off as he realised the implications. ‘That means he knows what we’re up to. But how could he?’

‘How’s the question, me bucko,’ the bogus priest answered, scowling malevolently. ‘There’s not so many who could have told him.’

“No, there aren’t,’ Fourmies agreed, then his somewhat high-pitched voice registered alarm mingled with indignation. ‘Do you mean that one of us is a traitor?’

‘One of you must be,’ ‘Devlin’ declared. ‘Unless he’s got a crystal ball, which I doubt.’

‘Well it isn’t me!’ the artist squawked, drawing an unpleasant conclusion from the emphasis that had been placed upon the word ‘you’ and wanting to exculpate himself.

‘You’d say that whether it is or not,’ ‘Devlin’ pointed out sardonically, then swung his gaze back to the auditorium. ‘So we’d better find out where he is and grab him. Then we’ll be learning the truth of it. Come on, you son-of-a-bitch. Speak up so I can pick you out.”

Although the impostor did not know it, he was too late to locate the person for whom he was looking.

As soon as he saw that the majority of the audience were responding as he had hoped they would, the dissident left his aisle seat and strolled without apparent haste in a jaunty fashion towards the front entrance of the auditorium. Having achieved his purpose, he was too wise to try to improve - from his point of view, if not that of the woman on the stage and her confederates - the situation. To have done so might have spoiled the effect. So far, none of the men around him had drawn any conclusions from his accent. However, he felt sure that it would at least alert ‘Father Devlin’ to the possibility that his sympathies might not be in accord with those of the invited guests.

Studying the dissidents as he was approaching, the two men lounging on either side of the closed double doors showed no sign of recognising him as the cause of their employer’s agitation. Nor, in spite of having been instructed to dissuade anybody who tried to leave before the main purpose of the evening’s entertainment was concluded, did they see anthing suspicious about him.

Close to six foot tall, in his mid-thirties, the departing man had curly black hair and the kind of neatly trimmed moustache currently fashionable among the sports and bloods of the neighbourhood. A somewhat over-sized nose that had been broken and badly set combined with a long scar across the left cheek to detract from the otherwise rugged good looks of his tanned face. He was well, if not heavily built and walked with a jaunty, yet light-footed grace which suggested he would place more reliance on agility than brute strength if engaged in physical conflict. Neither the low crowned, curly brimmed grey felt billycock hat^10 he was donning nor the brown two-piece suit, collarless white shirt and multicoloured scarf knotted about his throat were unusual attire in the neighbourhood. However, despite his appearance suggesting he was a typical working class Irishman, a close observer might have noticed his hands gave no indication that he ever indulged in manual labour.

‘You wouldn’t be thinking of walking out while the lady’s still talking, now would you, me bucko?’ the smaller of the doorkeepers inquired quietly, but in a tone which suggested an answer in the affirmative would be unwelcome, as he and his companion moved inwards to block the entrance. He was also the much more expensively attired of the pair and his bearing was one of authority. ‘Now that wouldn’t be polite at all.’

‘That it wouldn’t, I’d be the last to deny,’ the dissident agreed, halting and thrusting open his jacket to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers behind his back. He had identified his challenger as Phineas Branigan, controller of the hard-cases who served the local politicians in a number of clandestine ways. ‘And under normal circumstances Patrick Aloysious Murphy’d be the last to do it. But my bladder’s close to busting and I don’t think the O’Malley’d take it kind if I was to widdle on his floor, nor the lady for that matter.’

‘It’d not be the first time that’d happened,’ the second doorkeeper grinned, starting to step aside. ‘But it’s not us’d be making you do it.’

“You’ll not be finding it outside,’ Branigan stated, without duplicating his underling’s actions. ‘It’s along to the left there.’

‘Then that’s where I’ll be going,’ the dissident answered, displaying a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. Turning and walking in the direction he had been indicated, he thought, ‘And I hope there’s another way out of it when I get there.’

Unaware that the person in whom he was interested had no intention of making further comments, the bogus priest was conscious of the audience’s increasing unrest. It warned him that Vera had lost their interest. A desire to avoid antagonising him was all that prevented a mass exodus, or the kind of hostile reaction which would otherwise have been accorded to an unpopular entertainer regardless of sex. Instead, there was growing evidence of their dissatisfaction. They coughed, moved on their seats, shuffled their feet and began to mutter among themselves. Seeing that the woman was showing annoyance and knowing she could be just as tactless as himself when aroused, he decided to yield to the inevitable.

‘I’d better go and stop her before she makes things any worse,’ ‘Devlin’ informed the artist, wanting to establish that blame for the fiasco was not attributable to him. Walking from the wings, he raised his hands in a gesture which brought silence to the audience. Then, ignoring the startled and resentful look thrown his way by the actress as she stopped speaking, he addressed them. ‘Well, that’s all for this evening, lads. It’s been enjoyable as you’ll all be agreeing, but Miss Gore-Kauphin’s getting tired. So let’s hear a cheer for her, then off you can go and drink her health.’

Even as the audience were starting to comply with a vigour that was mainly due to the prospect of carrying out the final part of their ‘priest’s’ instructions, Fourmies glanced at the door which gave access to the dressing-rooms in the basement. Two further members of their party were down there and he wondered if one of them might be the traitor.

Gorr-Kauphin had not closed the door properly when going through it in a huff and, being badly fitted, it had begun to creep open. For a few seconds, the artist failed to appreciate the implications of the flickering red glow which emanated from somewhere along the basement’s passage. Then he realised what the sight must mean.

‘Au feu!’ Fourmies shrieked, so agitated and alarmed that he instinctively reverted to his native tongue. Dashing on to the stage, he continued to speak hurriedly in French, ‘Quickly! There’s a fire in the dressing-rooms!’

‘What the he- What’s that?’ ‘Devlin’ snapped, revising the question just in time to avoid using words unbefitting a member of the clergy, the warning having been delivered in such haste that he found his knowledge of the French language unable to decipher it.

‘He said there’s a fire in t-!’ Vera began, incensed by the interruption of her peroration before she could conclude the points she had wanted to put over. Then the full import of Fourmies’s outburst struck her and, starting to run towards the wings, she shouted, ‘Come on! There’s a fire in the dressing-rooms!’

Sharing the woman’s apprehension over the possible consequences, the impostor paid not the slightest attention to the excitement that her behaviour and announcement were causing among the audience. Oblivious of the yells of ‘Fire!’ and other manifestations of alarm ringing in his ears, he rushed after her followed by the artist.

1 There is no mention of the true identify of the man who took Father Matthew Devlin’s place in any of the records supplied to the author by Alvin Dustine ‘Cap’ Fog. So we will continue to refer to him by his victim’s name. Details of our informant’s early career are given in: ‘CAP’ FOG, TEXAS RANGER,’ MEET MR. J. G. REEDER. and ‘CAP’ FOG, COMPANY ‘Z’. J.T.E.

2 ‘Spic’: derogatory name for a person of Latin origin: J. T.E.

3 ‘Heeb’: derogatory name for a Jew. J. T.E.

4 ‘Bohunk’: an immigrant from Central Europe; i.e., a Pole, Slav, Czech, Hungarian, or an Austrian. J. T.E.

5 ‘Swede’: in this context, not necessarily a Swedish national, but applied to all the Nordic races. J. T.E.

6 ‘Dutchman’: applied to people of Germanic origin as well as to those born in the Netherlands. J. T£.

7 According to the legend, being informed during an argument that an Italian born in the United States was entitled to be considered a one hundred per cent American, an Irishman replied in that case he was a one hundred and ten per cent American.

8 ‘Derry’: colloquial name for the city of Londonderry. J. T.E.

9 ‘Joe’: derogatory name for a Protestant, chiefly employed by Catholics in Northern Ireland. Said to be an abbreviated corruption of ‘Judas Iscariot’. J. T.E.

10 ‘Billycock hot’: also known as a ‘derby’, or a ‘bowler’. J.T.E.

CHAPTER TWO

YOU’RE NOT A MAN!

There was no lessening of Colin Gorr-Kauphin’s sense of grievance against ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ as he stamped angrily down the stairs into the basement of O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre. Rather it was increasing as he continued to brood upon it. He had reached the bottom before he realised that all was not as it should be.

Even though the performers giving the show that night were of a higher echelon in the entertainment world than usually trod the boards of the establishment, or at least claimed to be, the management had not attempted to supply them with any better accommodation and facilities. Apart from the light thrown through the open door of the dressing-room to which he was going in search in solace, the passage had no illumination. Even the lantern by the door at the top of the second flight of stairs, which gave access to the alley at the rear of the building, was no longer lit.

A feeling of malicious pleasure began to creep through Gorr-Kauphin. If the orders given by ‘Devlin’ had been carried out correctly, the door of that particular dressing-room should have been closed. Because of its important contents, the person inside was only to admit the bogus priest, Raoul Fourmies, Vera Gorr-Kauphin or her brother. He was also supposed to prevent everybody else from even looking in.

Although Marcel Tinville was another frequent sufferer under the humiliating lash of ‘Devlin’s’ tongue and might be counted upon to lend a sympathetic ear to complaints about him, the young actor was unable to resist the temptation to show the other at fault. Advancing on tiptoe and without a sound, he reached the dressing-room undetected. On looking through the door, he discovered with a sensation of alarm that the sole occupant was not the person upon whom he had intended to burst in and startle. Nor was the stranger’s behaviour indicative of casual or innocent intent.

Standing at the dressing-table, facing away from the door, the intruder was bending over and just raising the lid of the sturdy brown leather trunk that was responsible for the precautions. The last time Gorr-Kauphin had seen it, the trunk had been on the floor in the corner of the room. What was more, the dainty, rolled parasol, a black, hooded cloak-like Kerry coat - neither of which struck him as being in any way significant - or the fair-sized Mason jar,1 its top removed and filled with an opaque, thickish liquid, alongside the piece of baggage belonged to any member of his party.

Any slight possibility that the intruder might have entered the dressing-room by accident, or in error, was ruled out by the fact that the trunk had been secured with two locks when Gorr-Kauphin had left to take part in the performance. As he knew and had resented, the only keys were in the possession of his sister and ‘Devlin’ and never left their respective persons.

Realising that the intruder must be up to no good, the actor was on the point of yelling to raise the alarm when other points began to attract his attention. They suggested to him that it might be advantageous if he was to adopt a more positive line of action.

Clad in an open necked black shirt, with matching tight fitting riding breeches and Hessian boots,2 the stranger was shorter and more slender than Gorr-Kauphin. There was a mirror on the dressing-table, but being bent over to examine the contents of the trunk allowed only the top of a head with short black hair to be reflected in the fly-specked and cracked glass.

Although the actor had a cut-throat razor in the right side pocket of his jacket, he decided against removing and opening it. Taking into consideration the disparity in their respective sizes and that his presence was still unsuspected, he felt certain he could grab and hold the intruder without needing the weapon. ‘Devlin’ did not know he had started to carry it and he had no wish to divulge the information. Once he had a grip on the stranger, he could shout to summon assistance and need not betray his secret armament.

Drawing these conclusions, the actor suddenly remembered Tinville and wondered where he might be. Deciding that he must have gone to relieve himself at the toilet, Gorr-Kauphin was amused by the thought of his consternation when he discovered how his neglect of duty had so nearly been exploited. What was more, the actor knew his own standing would be much enhanced by having circumvented a robbery that would have had a most adverse effect upon their plans.

Faced with similar circumstances, a less self-centred person - or one with greater discernment - would have been more concerned by thoughts of how the intruder had gained admission, or why that particular dressing-room had been selected. It was not the nearest to either of the passage’s doors and others were in use. Furthermore, apart from the two locks - which were often fitted on such baggage - there was nothing about the trunk’s outside appearance to indicate that its contents would be worth the trouble of breaking into it.

Thinking of nothing more than the acclaim he would receive when he made his capture and of Tinville’s mortification, Gorr-Kauphin stepped through the door. Employing all the stealth he could muster, he crossed the room. Drawing closer to his intended victim, he held his breath lest it be heard and betray his coming. Then, seeing that the other was beginning to straighten up and the head was lifting, he sprang the remaining distance and threw his arms around the slender shoulders.

Even as the actor was starting to pin the intruder’s arms with his own, his hands came into contact with two mounds of flesh he had not expected to encounter. At the same moment, he saw the other’s face for the first time. As was the case with the portions of the human anatomy he was touching, the sight of it came as a considerable surprise. He had believed he was dealing with a boy, or a youth in the middle ‘teens at most, but realised that was not so.

The discoveries made by Gorr-Kauphin were so unexpected that he did not continue with his intention of pinioning the intruder’s arms. Instead, he loosened his hold a little. Not much, but sufficiently to have a disastrous effect upon his hopes of gaining his fellow conspirators’ approbation.

Surging erect with speed and surprising strength, the intruder took full advantage of the chance inadvertently being offered by the actor. Curving forward, the black clad buttocks thrust back sharply to strike him and, making him pull away a little, caused his arms to open even more. Powered by a twisting writhe of the partially liberated torso, the left elbow was propelled against his chest hard enough to break his attempted rear bear hug completely. As he began to withdraw, his assailant pivoted. Around whipped a clenched right fist to connect against the side of his jaw with a force that sent him staggering at a tangent.

‘Y- You - !’ Gorr-Kauphin gasped, as his involuntary retreat was brought to a halt by the wall at the right side of the door. He was so amazed that he could neither think nor do anything more sensible and positive than to go on, ‘You’re not a man!’

‘Why how clever of you-all to guess,’ was the mocking reply, in a decidedly feminine voice whose accent was that of a well-bred and educated Southron.

Not more than five foot seven in height, with a slim figure that was - as Gorr-Kauphin’s hands had discovered to his consternation - far from flat-chested and skinny, the speaker was an exceptionally beautiful young woman. There was no suggestion of fear in her demeanour as she met his furious gaze, only a wary alertness and grim determination.

If the actor had been confronted by a man, or even a youth, the intruder’s obvious ability at self protection and the readiness to employ it would have caused him to run outside calling for help. Opposed by a woman, particularly one smaller than himself, his vicious, bullying nature would not allow him to do so. Letting out a snarl of rage, he pushed himself away from the wall and reached for the razor.

Although Gorr-Kauphin was expecting his display of aggression to cow the woman into terrified submissiveness such a state failed to materialise. It produced exactly the opposite effect. By the time he had taken three steps towards her, before the razor was in his reaching fingers, she was coming to meet him.

Leaping into the air with the grace of a ballerina performing a pirouette, the intruder’s next action was more akin to that of an exponent of the style of fist and foot boxing devised by the French and called savate. As she was twisting around in mid-flight, her left leg delivered a kick to the centre of the actor’s chest. Slender she might be, but she was possessed of the steel-like yet supple strength of a professional dancer. The impact robbed him of his breath and pitched him out of the dressing-room to the far side of the passage.

Alighting with the same agility which had characterised all her movements, the young woman sprang back to the dressing-table. Looking at the wad of paper money and cloth bags holding what she suspected to be gold coins, a considerable sum which had brought her to the theatre, she gave a sigh of resignation. She had hoped to carry it away with her, or at least appropriate a substantial portion, but realised neither would now be possible. On her arrival, she had found the trunk too heavy for her to be able to carry it any great distance at speed. In fact, she had needed all her far from inconsiderable strength to lift it on to the table so as to make sure she had been told the truth about its contents. Despite the skill she had acquired in such matters, picking open the two locks had already caused the delay which had made her presence detected. To remain any longer could bring about her capture, with what she did not doubt would be dire and probably fatal consequences.

Aware of the sinister purpose to which the money was to be put, the female intruder was determined to prevent it from being used. Although hoping that the need to employ it would not arise, she had come to the dressing-room prepared to cope with such an eventuality as she was now facing.

Picking up the open Mason jar, the young woman tilted it and distributed the contents over the money in the trunk. There were several small chunks of some yellowish-white substance in the liquid and they began to smoke as it drained away to expose them to the air. Then they burst into flames which spread with a rapidity that suggested the fluid from the jar was also highly inflammable.

Knowing such a conflagration would result when the jar was emptied, the woman was wasting no time. Dropping the container into the trunk as soon as it had served its purpose, she snatched up the Kerry coat and parasol. Either of them ought to have suggested to the actor when he first saw them that they were items which were unlikely to belong to a man, but they had not. Without waiting to don the former, or attempting to open the latter, she turned her back on the trunk and its burning contents to run from the room.

On reaching the wall and being prevented by it from falling, Gorr-Kauphin was hanging there in close to a condition of suspended animation. Sucking in air to replenish his lungs, he watched the young woman leave the dressing-room and dart towards the stairs which led to the rear exit. Then, seeing the flames rising from the trunk, he realised that she must have caused them. The appreciation produced a sensation of extreme apprehension. He knew that he would be considered even more culpable than the absent Tinville for any losses incurred to his party’s finances. While his companion’s neglect of duty had permitted the intruder to enter and wreak the havoc, he would be held responsible for failing to capture her personally, or raise the alarm so others more competent could attend to it.

Fear of what would be done to him when ‘Devlin’ heard of how he had behaved provided the actor with the incentive he needed to overcome the pain he was suffering and his natural cowardice. Trying to yell for help, his depleted lungs could produce only a feeble croaking that was drowned by the applause from the auditorium which was - although he did not know it - greeting the ‘priest’s’ announcement of the show being over. With a sickening emotion assailing him, he realised that he must try to apprehend the intruder unaided.

Reaching the far from pleasant conclusion, Gorr-Kauphin remembered he was armed. His right hand had left the pocket empty when he was kicked from the dressing-room, but he returned it to grasp and take out the razor. It would be a most effective weapon, he told himself as he opened the blade, particularly as the woman had the Kerry coat hanging over her left arm and was carrying what he assumed to be a harmless piece of feminine frippery, the parasol, in her right hand.

Watching the intruder ascending the stairs as he was running along the passage, the actor felt his apprehension changing to smug satisfaction. She had a lead on him, but that was not important under the prevailing conditions. As a precaution against unauthorised visitors, ‘Devlin’ had insisted that - in addition to the door being locked - its bolts at the top and bottom must be secured. So she would be delayed while slipping them, turning the key in the lock and opening the door. Before she could accomplish the task, he would arrive and attack her from the rear.

There was an important flaw in Gorr-Kauphin’s reasoning, if he had given the matter more careful consideration.

Apart from the backstage entrance, the only means of access to the dressing-rooms was via the rear door. Wishing to ensure the privacy of their entertainers, the proprietors had sealed off the passage from the remainder of the basement. Even wearing the Kerry coat to conceal her short, urchin-like hair and masculine attire, at least to just below knee level, the woman could hardly have passed through the wings to gain admittance without being noticed and challenged as to her authority for being there.

Having been let in through the rear entrance by the man whose information had caused her to pay the visit, the intruder had locked the door to prevent the guards who were patrolling around the building from discovering that it was no longer secured. She had, however, only used the lock and did not reclose the bolts. So, although she had to turn the key before she could leave, there was nothing else to delay her departure.

Or so the young woman had assumed.

With her left hand reaching for the key, the intruder heard the actor’s footsteps. A glance over her shoulder warned that he was not behaving as she had anticipated. Noticing his frightened expression and dazed appearance as she was leaving the dressing-room, she had expected that - even if he was too winded to be able to shout - he would do no more than go for help. By doing so, he would summon assistance to put out the fire. That was a point she had taken into consideration. While she was determined to prevent the money from being used for the purpose it had been intended, she did not wish to endanger other people’s lives. Whoever arrived would bring the blaze under control before it spread, but not quickly enough to avoid the damage and destruction she sought.

A glance at Gorr-Kauphin’s rage-suffused features, then to the cutthroat razor in his right hand was all the woman needed to take in before she knew he had decided upon more positive action than was envisaged. What was just as apparent, having formed an accurate assessment of his character, he was as dangerous as a cornered rat. Nor would he allow considerations of her sex to prevent him from lashing out with the weapon he was carrying.

However, in spite of being encumbered by the Kerry coat and parasol - although the latter would have offered an effective means of self protection under different conditions, the intruder was far from being the helpless victim the actor expected. Assessing the situation with neither fear nor panic, she concluded the way in which she could best defend herself. Swinging around on her left foot, she prepared to give another demonstration of how capably she had mastered savate.

Gorr-Kauphin saw the woman turning to face him as he was ascending the stairs. Before he could fully appreciate the implications of her action, her right leg whipped up with devastating speed. Caught under the chin with the toe of the black Hessian boot, his head snapped back and seemed to become filled with brilliantly flashing, multicoloured lights.

Thrown backwards by the power of the kick, the actor landed in a sitting posture on the floor. For a moment, searing pain ripped through him. He vaguely felt himself tilting onwards until the back of his head struck the unyielding stone surface with hardly diminished force. Then everything went black.

While the intruder was neither callous nor uncaring about the well-being of others, knowing something of what Gorr-Kauphin and his companions had done since their arrival in Chicago and hoped to achieve in the future, she felt little concern over the injuries she knew he must have sustained. Completing the graceful pirouette which had enabled her to put her full power behind the kick, she unlocked the door.

Hearing the commotion from the direction of the stage, she was satisfied that she could leave immediately and did not need to raise the alarm. Throwing open the door, she stepped into the alley and drew it closed behind her without a backward glance - then saw somebody coming towards her!

Watching with impatience until the other two occupants of the ‘gentlemen’s’ toilet had finished their reason for being there and walked out, the dissident who had called himself ‘Patrick Aloysius Murphy’ gave a low hiss of relief. Far from being a modest man, his purpose in the room could not be carried out while they were present. In spite of having a sound motive for wanting to leave as quickly as possible, finding them there was preventing him. However, he derived some satisfaction from their conversation which suggested his comments had ruined the real reason for the free entertainment.

Waiting until the door had closed behind the pair, the dissident went to the only window. There was no exit as such from the toilet to the alley alongside the theatre, the proprietors being too experienced to supply what could just as easily offer a means of unauthorised and unpaid admission. However, the window was large enough for the facilities receptacles to be passed out for emptying instead of having them removed via the booking hall.

As the dissident had noticed on entering, the window was bolted but not locked. He would have preferred to see what, or who, might be in the alley before essaying his departure. Unfortunately, if understandably, the panes had been coated with a thick layer of black paint on each side to ensure the privacy of the toilet’s users. Realising that it would be impossible for him to scrape a peephole, he drew the bolts and raised the lower half to peer out cautiously. Seeing nobody, he climbed through and dropped into the alley. On landing and turning to walk towards the rear of the building, he learned that his reconnaissance had not been sufficiently thorough.

‘Hey, you there!’ called a husky Irish voice from the front end of the building. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Looking around, ‘Murphy’ discovered that the challenger was one of the men Phineas Branigan had patrolling around the theatre. Close to six foot three in height, weighing well over two hundred pounds, the tight fit of his suit warned that little of his bulk was flabby fat. He had hair cut so short he appeared almost bald and his features were so battered that he had clearly fought many times. In his right hand was grasped a thick and knotted walking stick which he carried with no more effort than if it had been a slender twig.

Such a man, the dissident realised, would be dangerous in the extreme. Even employing speed and scientific fighting methods, it would be difficult to deal with him silently unless he was taken by surprise. Given a chance, in addition to defending himself, he would create enough of a disturbance to bring the other lookout on the run to investigate.

‘Well now, darlin’.’ ‘Murphy’ replied, standing sideways to the man and, as he had when talking with the doorkeepers inside the theatre, putting his hands behind his back. ‘I found all that high-faluting talk so drying to the throat I reckoned I’d be slipping out for a drink.”

‘The Branigan told us that nobody was to leave while she’s gabbing,’ the lookout protested, lumbering closer with the ponderous menace of a bull elephant.

‘If that’s the way of it,’ ‘Murphy’ answered, turning away without bringing his hands from beneath the jacket, ‘it’s going back in I’ll be.’

‘Hold on there!’ the lookout commanded, realising that the young man should have swung in his direction if meaning to return to the theatre. ‘That’s not the way!’

‘That it isn’t,’ ‘Murphy’ admitted, starting to reverse his direction. Then he stared past the burly lookout as if at something menacing and snapped, ‘Behind you!’

Having assessed the situation, the dissident had decided how he might cope with it. Not only had he been aware of the purpose behind the ‘entertainment’, he knew that money which was essential to the conspiracy was in one of the dressing-rooms. Having achieved his purpose by arousing suspicions and doubts about Vera Gorr-Kauphin’s motives, he hoped to be able to remove the means to finance the scheme in which she was participating. However, he was aware that time was of the essence and pulled an old trick in the hope of avoiding any further delay.

Selected for brawn and blind obedience to orders rather than intellect, the burly lookout was taken in by ‘Murphy’s’ behaviour. Wondering who, or what, might be behind him, he swung around with surprising speed for one of his bulk.

Casual as ‘Murphy’s’ act of placing his hands behind his back had appeared to be, there was an anything but harmless reason for doing it. As soon as the lookout started to turn, his right fist emerged from the jacket and it was not empty. The weapon he grasped was a British-made Webley Royal Irish Constabulary .476 double action revolver with a two and a half inch barrel. He did not offer to use it as a firearm. Instead, he swung it upwards swiftly. On purchasing it, he had had the lanyard ring removed as an aid to concealment. While this precluded it from being secured to his person, it was not rendered any less effective as a club. Driven against the back of the burly man’s skull, the base of the butt’s impact dropped him as if he had been pole-axed.

Glancing around to make sure he had not been observed, ‘Murphy’ decided to return the Webley before continuing his mission. To carry it in his hand was certain to arouse suspicion, even if he met somebody around the corner where his victim could not be seen. Slipping it into its holster, which was attached to his belt but tucked inside the waistband of his trousers, he rolled the unconscious lookout into the shadows and strode swiftly along the alley. Peering around the corner, he found nothing to disturb him.

As ‘Murphy’ was approaching the rear entrance to the theatre, it began to open. Coming to a halt, his right hand went behind his back to close on the butt of the Webley. A figure was emerging through the door, illuminated by the flickering red glow of a fire somewhere inside. The Kerry coat it was donning showed a masculine black shirt, riding breeches and Hessian boots, but their wearer was undoubtedly feminine.

At the sight of the man, the black clad young woman’s left hand went to the body of the parasol. Giving a twist, as she also shrugged off the Kerry coat, she separated it into two pieces and raised the handle portion in a threatening manner.

‘Well I’m blowed!’ ‘Murphy’ ejaculated. His voice had lost its County Londonderry accent and he now spoke in the somewhat drawling manner of an upper class Englishman. ‘It’s the Rebel Spy!’

‘Land’s sakes, the Remittance Kid!’ the woman gasped, then she relaxed and lowered her right hand. ‘I didn’t know you were in Chicago’

‘Nor I you, dear girl,’ ‘Murphy’ replied, then nodded towards the doorway. ‘But something tells me we’re both here for much the same reason.’

‘It’s possible,’ the beautiful young woman conceded, bending to pick up the Kerry coat. ‘But I don’t think we’d better stay here to discuss it.’

1 ‘Mason jar’: a glass container having a tightly fitting screw top, used for canning and preserving. Designed and patented by John L. Mason of New York in 1857.J.T.E.

2 For the benefit of new readers, ‘Hessian’ boots were originally designed as footwear for Hussars and other types of light cavalry. The legs extended to just below knee level, with a V-shaped notch at the front. J.T.E.

CHAPTER THREE

YOU’RE NO DAMNED USE HERE

‘Oh my god!’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin shrieked, skidding to a halt and staring horrified through the door of her dressing-room at the repository for her party’s finances. ‘How did this-?’

Having taken in the sight which met her gaze as she was leading the way into the basement, the actress had demonstrated beyond any shadow of a doubt what she regarded as her priorities. Her brother was sprawling supine and motionless at the other end of the passage, but she had not given him more than a single glance while approaching from the stage entrance. In fact, such had been her sense of perturbation that - despite knowing it was a rear exit from O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre - she attached no significance to the way the door at the top of the second flight of stairs was closing. Her sole concern was to find out what was burning in her dressing-room.

‘Father Matthew Devlin’ was filled with an equal sensation of anxiety as he followed Vera. Never the politest of men, nor noted for excessive courtesy towards members of the opposite sex, he was even less so in the stress of his current emotions. Thrusting her aside as she came to a halt, he passed her. After glaring for a moment at the flames which were belching from the open leather trunk on the dressing-table, he started to go through the door. Obscenities of the vilest kind bubbled from him as the violent torrent of heat drove him back. Looking past him and into the room as he retreated, having made no attempt to follow, Raoul Fourmies did nothing more constructive than let out a horrified wail.

‘Don’t just stand there, go and fetch those god-damned buckets here!’ the impostor thundered, spinning around to glower at the artist. Although Fourmies continued to stare open-mouthed into the dressing-room, the four stagehands who had followed them down the stairs obeyed with alacrity. On the point of venting his rage over the artist’s lack of activity, another thought struck ‘Devlin’ and he glared along the passage, snarling, ‘Where the hell’s Tinville?’

‘Isn’t he in there?’ Fourmies inquired.

‘Would I be asking if he was?’ the imposter thundered.

‘Perhaps he went - !’ the artist commenced, noticing that the bogus priest’s rage filled voice had suggested less concern for Marcel Tinville’s welfare than regret over discovering he was not in the room. Realising his own comment was not well received, he sought to divert the fury it was arousing by pointing along the passage and yelping, ‘What’s happened to Colin?’

‘Go and find out, you’re no damned use here!’ ‘Devlin’ ordered, his bearing showing he neither knew nor cared what had happened to the young actor. Glancing to where the stagehands were approaching, he found that they at least were behaving in a sensible and practical manner. Returning his gaze to the scowling and resentful artist, he went on no less viciously, ‘Get the hell out of the way, damn you. You’re about as much use as an udder on a bull!’

In one respect, circumstances were more favourable to the impostor and his fellow-conspirators than they had been of late. Since the great fire which had devastated much of Chicago on October the 8th and 9th, 1871,1 the community’s businessmen in particular had become very conscious of what was entailed by such a disaster. Many of them, including the theatre’s proprietors, had taken precautions to minimise the chance of a recurrence and installed equipment to help with such an emergency.

On arriving in the passage, the theatre’s employees had not awaited instructions. Each of them had collected two red painted buckets from the line of a dozen - eight of which were filled with water and the rest sand - ranged along the wall at the foot of the stairs down which they had descended and were hurrying towards the dressing-room.

To give him his due, the bogus priest did much more than either the actress or the artist to try to salvage their endangered finances. Vera remained with her back pressed to the wall against which ‘Devlin’ had shoved her, and Fourmies almost scuttled to where her brother was lying. Making a perfunctory examination and deciding he could do nothing for Gorr-Kauphin, he returned along the passage with the intention of seeing if Tinville was in the toilet.

Snatching a fire bucket from the first stagehand to arrive, the impostor plunged into the dressing-room regardless of the heat. However, anxiety over the fate of the money in the trunk led him to act rashly. Without giving a thought to consequences, he hurled the water on to the flames. Instantly, it was transformed into a hissing cloud of steam which raised the temperature beyond human endurance and drove him to retreat.

‘Water’s no good!’ ‘Devlin’ bellowed, backing hurriedly through the door and waving aside the proffered bucket. He had learned his lesson and did not intend to repeat the mistake, but realised there was insufficient means to quell the awesome volume of flames in the basement. ‘Give me the sand and fetch more of it.’

The first part of the order was delayed while the impostor took out and soaked a large red bandana in one of the water-filled buckets, then he fastened it over his mouth and nostrils. With this done, he took a bucket of sand and returned to the fray. As he was entering the room, he saw that his second requirement was already being carried out.

Even before various ordinances that were brought into being following the great fire, making such materials mandatory in the construction of new buildings, the theatre had been made of bricks and stone. Its basement had been blasted out of solid rock, but the dividing walls and ceilings of the dressing-rooms were made of wood. So, aware of the possibility, the manager had sent sand-filled buckets downstairs and retained those containing water to be used if there was danger of the stage catching alight.

In spite of the manager’s forethought and ‘Devlin’s’ example spurring the stagehands to follow his example, considerable effort and the expenditure of much sand was required to douse the flames. Bucket after bucket was thrown on them, until the highly inflammable substance poured into the trunk by the female intruder was buried and smothered. Once this was accomplished, after glowering at the onlookers who were gathered outside and looking through the slanting window, he thanked his helpers and sent them away to check that there was no danger of a fire breaking out elsewhere in the building.

‘Where have you been?’ the impostor snarled, as Fourmies came to the door of the dressing-room.

‘Looking for Marcel,’ the artist replied, having done so because he had considered it a safer occupation than helping to fight the fire. ‘He’s not in the toilet - !’

‘Then go and tell Branigan to search the theatre for him!’ ‘Devlin’ commanded and, wanting to make an examination to discover the extent of damage to their finances, lowered his voice to supplement the order. ‘And have him keep everybody away from that damned window.’

‘Oh my god!’ Vera gasped, a remembrance coming to her, as the artist hurried away. ‘That must have been Tinville I saw leaving as we were coming down here!’

“You saw him?’ the impostor snarled, swinging towards the actress and remembering just in time that they had an audience, so holding his voice down.

‘I didn’t actually see him!’ Vera corrected, sounding just as angry even though she too had the presence of mind not to make it known to the men in the alley. ‘The back door was just closing and I didn’t see who had gone out, but it must have been him. Nobody else was down here.’

‘Then he must have - !’ ‘Devlin’ began, but the sound of footsteps approaching the dressing-room prevented him from continuing.

‘Excuse me, ma’am, Father,’ the theatre’s manager said, entering followed by a man in the uniform of a senior member of the Chicago Fire Department. ‘Chief Monoghan and his men have just got here.’

‘It looks like we’re too late, Father,’ the second man went on. ‘But it’s lucky we brought an ambulance and doctor with us. That young feller lying by the back stairs’s hurt bad and’s going to need attention.’

‘It’s your brother. Miss Gorr-Kauphin,’ the manager supplemented.

Hearing the comment being relayed by the men outside the window, Vera realised that her pretence of being a person deeply concerned over the well-being of those less fortunate than herself would suffer if she let it become obvious that she had not given a thought to Colin’s condition. So she managed to put aside her concern for the contents of the trunk and produced a well simulated exhibition of distress. Giving a gasping cry and clutching dramatically at her bosom, she rushed out of the dressing-room.

‘Well, dear girl,’ remarked the young man who had introduced himself to Phineas Branigan as ‘Patrick Aloysius ‘Murphy’ when trying to leave, but had answered to what was clearly a sobriquet - the Remittance Kid - outside the building. ‘From the look of things, the rest of the jolly old theatre isn’t going to go up in flames.’

‘Do you think I wanted it to?’ the slender, beautiful young woman, who had accepted being addressed by what was just as clearly a pseudonym, demanded with some heat.

‘The thought never entered my head, old thing,’ the man declared placatingly. ‘Even though you’re here for the same thing that brought me along, but for the United States’ Secret Service, I know you wouldn’t put other people’s lives at risk.’

‘Why thank you ‘most to death for your confidence,’ the young woman replied, sounding mollified and losing her air of asperity. Without either confirming or denying the comment about the United States’ Secret Service, she went on, ‘I wouldn’t have done it if there had been any other way.’

Although the couple had acted upon her suggestion that it would be inadvisable to remain near the rear exit, they had not withdrawn to any great distance from the scene of their respective disruptive activities. Crossing the otherwise deserted and poorly lit street behind the theatre, they had selected an alley between two buildings which offered a view of the back door and the windows of the dressing-rooms as their point of vantage.

Once in concealment, the young woman had donned the Kerry coat and drawn up its hood to cover her boyishly short black hair and masculine attire. Then, without mentioning why she had taken it apart, she had reassembled the parasol.

The man had also made changes to his appearance, but they would not have been noticeable at a distance. On the other hand, they could have proved startling to anybody who was less well informed than his companion about his identity and means of earning a living. While she was putting on the coat, he had pulled away the large and broken-looking ‘nose’ to expose his genuine and much more presentable nasal appendage. Having done so, he had peeled the ‘scar’ from his left cheek and, after wrapping both in a handkerchief, put them in his jacket’s inside left breast pocket.

Discovering that the man she had met so unexpectedly was wearing a disguise came as no more of a surprise than finding out he recognised her and was aware of her official status. It was not their first meeting, which had accounted for him addressing her as ‘the Rebel Spy’. However, although she had served as a member of the Confederate States’ Secret Service during the War of Secession with such success that she had gained the well deserved the sobriquet,2 she was now a member of the organisation he had mentioned. In spite of the nature of her work, she had seen nothing strange in his having known about it.

Belle Boyd had first met her companion while she was engaged upon a mission in the West Indies during the War and had learned his secret. Posing as a young wastrel whose misdeeds had caused his family to pay him a remittance to stay out of England, which had created his nickname, he was in fact Captain Patrick Reeder, Rifle Brigade, seconded to the British Secret Service.3 Circumstances had caused them to work together and, before duty had caused them to go their separate ways, they had formed a liking for one another. Their paths had crossed again recently in Texas, where she had been sent on what had proved to be a most unusual and weird assignment.4 Yet, effective as her organisation’s sources of information mostly were, she had not known he was still in the United States.

In spite of having had no notification that the Remittance Kid was in the vicinity, Belle had deduced that they were both at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre for much the same reason. What she had not yet decided, or made an attempt to discover, was whether his interest and intentions were compatible to her own.

Neither the Rebel Spy nor the Englishman had spoken after they had entered the darkness of the alley. For all that, he had realised she was very worried in case the fire - which he felt sure she had started - should get out of control and caused some harmless occupant of the building to be hurt or killed.

From what the couple had seen, it had soon become apparent that Belle’s fears were groundless. Some of the audience had come pouring through the emergency exit which opened on to the alley under their observation and they had heard enough to assure them that the same was happening at the front entrance and other side. However, hurried as it was, the departure was being made without undue panic and they had known that, with the exception of Vera Gorr-Kauphin, there were neither women nor children on the premises to be endangered by the rush.

Nor, the Rebel Spy and the Englishman had noticed, had there been any threat of damage to the theatre or adjacent buildings. Passed on by shouts, the alarm was raised to be answered in a short while by the distant, but rapidly approaching, clanging of a bell, the drumming of several sets of hooves and rumble of fast turning wheels. Furthermore, even before the fire engine had come into view, the fiery glow from the shattered window of the affected dressing-room had died away as the flames were smothered and there was no sign of the blaze having spread elsewhere.

So the Kid had made his comment to help relieve Belle’s pent up emotions.

Before the couple could continue their conversation, a horse-drawn manually operated pump^5 arrived at the front of the theatre and was directed to the rear along the alley at the opposite end to their point of vantage. Although they did not know it, the vehicle was delayed slightly by men helping the Kid’s victim - who was just regaining consciousness - to his feet. It was followed by a tender carrying a water tank of two hundred gallons’ capacity. Bringing up the rear was a Rocker ambulance^6 with the words, ‘Streetville Municipal Hospital’, inscribed on the sides of the box-like wooden body. Coming to a halt, all three vehicles began to disgorge the men riding on them.

‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men - ,’ the Kid began, watching a young man wearing a white coat and carrying a doctor’s bag spring from the ambulance’s box to hurry after the fire chief towards the rear door of the building.

‘Couldn’t put the money in the trunk together again,’ Belle continued, paraphrasing the next line of the nursery rhyme and watching her companion in the hope of discovering whether, as she suspected, her version had any significance for him.

‘Those aren’t the words I was taught at prep school, dear girl,’ the Kid objected, but in a casually disinterested manner which betrayed nothing of his true feelings. ‘Of course, you colonials may have a different version.’

‘Actually, dear boy,’ Belle answered, mimicking the Englishman’s drawling, yet somehow clipped manner of speaking with considerable skill. ‘It’s never been proven to my satisfaction that the world is divided into two parts, Great Britain and her colonies.’

‘Great scot!’ the Kid gasped. ‘Do you mean it might not be?’

‘I’ve heard rumours to that effect,’ Belle declared in her normal voice, but sounding completely serious.

‘I hope nobody repeats them to my aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, it would cause her to have an attack of the vapours if she was told,’ the Kid responded. Then, although there was little observable change in his demeanour or tone, the next words informed the girl that he was returning to the business at hand. ‘Anyway, old thing, how much do you know about those blighters over at the theatre?’

‘I can’t say I know anything about them,’ Belle replied, exuding an aura of innocence. ‘But then, I don’t mingle socially with firemen so I wouldn’t, would I?’

‘It wasn’t the firemen I meant,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘But I get the feeling that somebody is playing the cards close to the jolly old vest, as you colonials - sorry, dear girl, old habits die hard - as you Yankees put it.’

‘Coming from the South, I don’t find being called a “Yankee” much of an improvement over “Colonial”,’ Belle protested. ‘And I rarely wear a vest.’

Once again, the couple were interrupted by the sound of vehicles approaching. Looking along the street in the opposite direction from which the fire engine had come, they found the leading vehicle was a ‘rockaway’ coach in the dark blue livery of the Chicago Police Department driven by a patrolman in uniform. Although its nearer lamp illuminated the police captain sitting inside, neither Belle nor the Kid could see the second occupant with sufficient clarity to establish his status. A buggy carrying two men in civilian clothes - one big, burly and heavily moustached, the other younger, clean shaven and dressed more fashionably - was following the coach.

‘Here come a few more of the king’s men,’ the Kid drawled.

‘I’d say it’s Humpty Dumpty himself,’ Belle corrected, recognising the captain and wishing she could see more of the man sitting next to him.

‘Do I detect a lack of respect for Captain O’Halloran’s ability?’ the Kid inquired.

‘He’s not the most efficient officer in the Chicago Police Department,’ Belle replied, guessing her companion was of a similar opinion.

‘From the little I’ve heard, I don’t think you could put him in the first hundred,’ the Kid answered. ‘But I’d say that’s all to the good, dear girl. Unless those chappies with him are more efficient, I doubt whether much will be achieved in finding out who started the fire.’

‘I doubt whether General Handiman will lose any sleep over that,’ Belle replied, knowing her companion was aware of the head of the U.S. Secret Service’s name. ‘And I certainly won’t.’

‘Or me,’ the Kid admitted. ‘And now, dear girl, what do you say if we take ourselves off to somewhere with enough privacy for us to do a little horse trading?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Belle smiled. ‘But I’d like to see if we can learn any more here before we go.’

‘It’s your country, dear girl,’ the Kid assented. ‘I’ll even go so far as to let you select the venue for our exchange of news.’

‘I’d like to get into some different clothes,’ Belle stated. ‘So we’ll go to my hotel, if you’ve no objections.’

‘Your wish is my command, ma’am,’ the Kid declared, bowing gallantly and receiving a graceful curtsy in return. ‘We’ll go there as soon as you’re ready.’

1 Raging over an area of three and one-third miles, the fire destroyed over 17,450 buildings valued at $196,000.00. Almost one hundred thousand people were rendered homeless and at least two hundred and fifty lost their lives. Of the $4,066,782.00 relief fund subscribed in the United States and overseas, half of the one million dollars foreign contributions came from the British Isles. J. T.E.

2 New readers can find details of Belle ‘the Rebel Spy’ Boyd’s background and special qualifications in APPENDIX ONE.J.T.fi.

3 The researches of fictionist-genealogist Philip Jose’Farmer - author of, among numerous other works, the biographies, TARZAN ALIVE and DOC SAVAGE, His Apocolyptic Life - have established that Captain (later Major General. Sir) Patrick Reeder (K.C.B., V.C., D.S.O., M.C. and Bar) was the uncle of the famous detective, Mr Jeremiah Golden Reeder, whose career is recorded by his biographer, Edgar Wallace, in ROOM 13, THE MIND OF MR. J. G. REEDER, RED ACES, MR. J. G. REEDER RETURNS and TERROR KEEP and whose organisation played a prominent part in the events told by the author in ‘CAP’ FOG, TEXAS RANGER, MEET MR. J. G. REEDER.

J.T.E.

4 The records supplied to the author by Alvin Dustine ‘Cap’ Fog referred to Captain Patrick Reeder having been sent to Texas to observe the events recorded in SET A-FOOT, but he did not have any participation in them. So there was no need to mention him in that volume. J.T.E.

5 As in most large cities, the Chicago Fire Department had appliances equipped with steam engines to power the pumps in all its station houses. However, although the engines had fires laid ready in the grates, these were not lit until an alarm was received. So, particularly in cases where the incident was not too far from the station house, a manually-operated pump would be dispatched to start fighting the fire while steam was being raised in the more sophisticated devices. J.T.E.

6 A description of a Rocker ambulance is given in: HOUND DOG MAN. J.T.E.

CHAPTER FOUR

FELL, OR WAS KICKED?

‘How is my poor dear brother?’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin gasped, exhibiting alarm and anxiety, as the group consisting of a police sergeant, two patrolmen and four stagehands, each holding a lamp who were gathered at the foot of the stairs leading to the rear exit moved aside to let her through. ‘He isn’t too badly hurt, is he?’

‘I’m afraid he might be,’ answered the fresh-faced young doctor who had arrived in the Rocker ambulance, so impressed by the actress’s histrionics that he rose without having carried out a thorough examination of the unconscious actor. ‘There’s nothing I can do for him here.’

‘Then take him to hospital as quickly as possible!’ Vera ordered, falling to her knees by her brother. Continuing to display emotions which appeared to be genuine, she went on in piteously pleading tones, ‘You will do all you can for him, won’t you?’

‘Everything,’ the doctor promised, but he was aware that such serious injuries as his patient had suffered would be dealt with by a member of the Streetville Municipal Hospital’s medical staff with longer and more extensive experience than his own.

‘Spare no expense!’ the actress authorised, looking up with such well-simulated distress that the assembled men murmured their sympathy. ‘Money is no object where my poor dear brother is concerned. Please don’t let anything happen to him, doctor.’

‘Don’t overdo it, you stupid bitch!’ thought ‘Father Matthew Devlin’, having followed Vera together with the fire chief and the theatre’s manager, knowing that she had not previously shown so much concern for her brother. Raising her to her feet and speaking with a greater gentleness than he was feeling, he continued, ‘There now, Miss Gorr-Kauphin, don’t go taking on so. The Holy Mother and the good Lord are watching over him. Now let’s be giving the doctor here a chance to do what has to be done.’

‘Wh - Whatever you say, “Father”,’ Vera assented, with forced meekness, taking a warning from the hard squeeze applied to her biceps as she was being lifted. She managed to exhibit what passed muster as relief at receiving such spiritual comfort. Wanting to find out the extent of the losses they had suffered as a result of the fire, she went on, ‘Take me back to the dressing-room so I can compose myself, please.’

‘That I will,’ the impostor confirmed. ‘And then you can put your cloak on -’

Sensing from the glance darted at him that the woman did not understand his suggestion, he elaborated in a somewhat less solicitous tones, ‘So you can go to the hospital with your brother and see all’s well with him.’

‘Excuse me, “Father”,’ the sergeant put in, looking up the stairs. ‘But Cap’n O’Halloran’s here and he’ll maybe be wanting a word with the lady before she goes anywhere.’

‘Very well,’ ‘Devlin’ replied. Swinging his gaze to the rear exit, while placing his right arm across Vera’s shoulders in a gesture suggesting protective support, he discovered that the captain of the Streetville Precinct was not alone. He also noticed that, although two of the men in civilian clothing halted on either side of the door, the third continued to accompany the captain. ‘You’ll have to bear up for just a little while longer, Miss Gorr-Kauphin.’

‘I - I’ll do my best to,’ the actress promised, only just managing to conceal her irritation over the delay with a veneer of patient resignation.

‘I came as soon as I heard what’d happened, “Father Devlin”,’ Captain Michael O’Halloran greeted, sounding apologetic. Being aware of the ‘priest’s’ connections with various important local politicians who could affect his career adversely, he wanted to avoid any suggestion of neglect or disinterest. Indicating the man who was descending at his side, he felt sure his next words would be a help in that direction even though they were not exactly true. ‘This’s Lieutenant Ballinger from the Detective Bureau at Headquarters. I asked him to come along in case he’ll be needed.’

Although the newcomer was too lacking in perception to realise it, the last statement was not being received as he anticipated.

Big, thickset to the point of obesity, O’Halloran was in his early fifties. There was nothing about his florid features to suggest subtlety, diplomacy, or brilliance of intellect. It was common knowledge that he had attained his rank and current position by a combination of long service and a willingness to comply with the wishes of the district’s political hierarchy.

From ‘Devlin’s’ point of view, the latter in particular would have made the captain ideal to conduct an investigation of the incident. On the other hand, every instinct possessed by the impostor suggested that the same might not apply to the man he had brought with him.

Equalling O’Halloran in height and almost twenty years younger, Lieutenant Edward Ballinger^1 was more slender; which did not make him puny in build. Although far from handsome, there was a rugged attraction about his craggy features. His curly brimmed brown billycock hat, grey suit, white shirt and sober dark blue tie were all of the latest Eastern style, but they were not sufficiently expensive to suggest he had an income outside his official salary.

‘Good evening, “Father”,’ the detective greeted. His tone was polite, but lacked the hint of servility shown by the captain. Nor did he wait for his nominal superior to commence questioning. ‘Can you tell me what’s been happening?’

‘There was a fire in Miss Gorr-Kauphin’s dressing-room,” the impostor replied. He had no intention of mentioning the foul play he suspected had taken place. ‘Her brother must have found it and was going to raise the alarm when he slipped and fell on the stairs.’

‘How much longer before you take Colin to the hospital, doctor?’ Vera put in, no longer able to restrain her curiosity and seeking an excuse to return to the dressing-room.

‘My men are bringing the stretcher now,’ the young intern replied, pointing to the two attendants from the ambulance who were coming through the rear door.

‘Then I’ll go and fetch my cloak!’ Vera stated and hurried away.

‘Do you know how the fire started, “Father”?’ Ballinger inquired, as the impostor began to turn.

‘That I don’t,’ ‘Devlin’ replied. ‘It was going when we got there. Now I’d better go and give Miss Gorr-Kauphin spiritual consolation, if that’s all right with you?’

‘Go ahead,’ Ballinger authorised, without consulting O’Halloran. As the bogus priest strode after the actress, who had already entered the dressing-room, he went on, ‘How bad is it, doctor?’

‘I could be wrong,’ the intern replied, in a manner that suggested he considered it most unlikely he was mistaken. ‘But I believe the back of his skull is fractured.’

‘How soon will he be able to answer questions?’ O’Halloran asked, deciding that he should be making a more active contribution to the conversation.

‘Not for some hours,’ the doctor stated definitely.

‘He’s not going to die then?’ the captain suggested.

‘I can’t say for sure until I’ve carried out a much more extensive examination at the hospital,’ the doctor answered, watching the attendants moving the unconscious actor on to the stretcher. ‘We can only hope for the best.’

‘I reckon you’d better have a look at this, lieutenant,’ the uniformed sergeant remarked quietly, taking advantage of his immediate superior’s preoccupation with the doctor. Holding out the cut-throat razor he had picked up on his arrival, he indicated Gorr-Kauphin. ‘I found it lying open near him. But if it had been used, it’s been wiped clean. Not that there’s anything to say it has been. Only I thought it was strange, finding it.’

Accepting the razor, Ballinger agreed with the sergeant’s last comment. Opening its blade, his intention was to discover where it had been manufactured rather than to corroborate that it had not been used. Having ascertained that it was made in the United States and closed the blade, he was dropping it into his jacket’s right hand pocket when he glanced to where the attendants were starting to lift the stretcher. Then he stared harder.

‘Hold it, fellers!’ the lieutenant ordered, stepping forward.

‘What are you doing?’ the doctor demanded, his attention diverted from O’Halloran by the sight of Ballinger who was bending over the stretcher and moving Gorr-Kauphin’s head slightly, to peer under the chin.

‘Did you say the back of his skull was fractured?’ the detective asked, straightening up.

‘I did,’ the doctor confirmed.

‘How’d it happen?’ Ballinger inquired.

‘I’d say that’s obvious,’ the doctor replied. ‘He fell backwards down the stairs.’

‘Fell, or was kicked?’ Ballinger challenged.

‘Kicked?’ the doctor snorted, making it plain that he considered the suggestion was preposterous.

‘What makes you think he was kicked down, Ed?’ O’Halloran asked, having a healthy respect for the detective’s ability.

‘There’s what I thought was just a bad bruise under his chin,’ Ballinger explained. ‘But when I looked closer, I found it was blacker than if it was only bruising. More like boot polish. What do you reckon, doctor?’

‘You’re right,’ the intern confirmed, having moved forward and duplicated the detective’s scrutiny. ‘I didn’t see it because Miss Gorr-Kauphin came before I could make a thorough examination. Let’s get him to the ambulance, men!’

‘So he didn’t just slip and hurt himself!’ O’Halloran breathed, watching the party from the hospital go up the stairs.

‘I wouldn’t want to take bets that he did,’ Ballinger replied dryly.

‘Then the fire could have been set off deliberately as well!’ O’Halloran went on, sounding even more perturbed.

‘There’s a good chance it was,’ Ballinger admitted. ‘Way I figure it, that gent saw and chased whoever touched it off; but got kicked down the stairs for doing it.’

A sense of consternation filled the captain as he began to appreciate the implications behind the detective’s suppositions. Despite the questions he had asked the doctor, which had been motivated by nothing more than a desire to establish his presence, he had not given the matter much consideration. Now he found himself faced with the possibility that it might be far more serious than he had anticipated. If a famous foreign actor - as he believed Gorr-Kauphin to be - should die, the circumstances were sure to attract attention. They would be reported not only in the city’s newspapers, but throughout the United States and perhaps even in Europe. Knowing the main reason for the evening’s entertainment at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre that night, he suspected that the local dignitaries who had sponsored it would not welcome such publicity.

‘Will you handle things here, Mick?’ the detective went on.

‘Me?’ O’Halloran asked, in surprise and without enthusiasm. ‘But I thought you’d be staying seeing that you asked me to bring you along.’

‘I aim to,’ Ballinger stated. ‘You can get things going for me while I’m taking a look at the dressing-room and trying to find out who started the fire.’

‘Oh sure, Ed, I’ll do that for you,’ O’Halloran assented in tones of relief, then went on less certainly, ‘What is it you’re wanting me to do?’

Despite the captain’s explanation to the bogus priest, it had been Ballinger’s suggestion that he came to the theatre. Considering how the situation appeared to be developing, O’Halloran was no longer sorry he had given his somewhat grudging permission. He could see the advantages of allowing the detective to continue handling the investigation. If it ended in failure, or in a way which the influential people involved with ‘Father Devlin’ regarded as unsatisfactory, he would have a scapegoat upon whom he could place all the blame. On the other hand, he was confident that he could take the majority of credit for himself should all go well.

‘Take Sergeant Molloy and Sergeant Damon and have some of your men go with them to ask if anybody was seen coming out of the door there just after the fire started,’ Ballinger requested. He gave no indication of whether he could guess the reason for the captain’s eagerness to retain his services. ‘Folks will always answer more freely if they know the men they’re talking to.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ O’Halloran promised.

On his arrival at the dressing-room, Ballinger knocked and went in without waiting for permission. Closing the door behind him, he gazed around. The walls and ceiling were stained with smoke. However, although its mirror had been destroyed by the heat, the top of the dressing-table was barely marked in spite of the charred leather trunk which stood upon it partially covered in sand. Noticing in passing that there was nobody outside the shattered window, he wondered whether the patrolmen who were on the scene had cleared the alley of would-be spectators.

However, the detective’s main interest centred upon Vera and ‘Devlin’. She had not carried out her stated intention of collecting a cloak to wear on the journey to the hospital. Instead, she appeared to have been clearing some of the sand used to douse the fire from the trunk. What was more, although she had been glaring defiantly at the ‘priest’ as he entered, she had reverted to the worried attitude which had been in evidence at the foot of the stairs on seeing who was coming through the door.

‘Has there been much damage?’ Ballinger inquired, walking forward.

‘We can’t tell yet,’ the impostor replied, darting a baleful scowl at the actress.

‘Could you fetch me my cloak from the alcove, please, lieutenant?’ Vera requested, wanting to prevent the detective from seeing what she had uncovered in the trunk.

‘Sure, ma’am,’ Ballinger agreed, turning aside to do so.

‘He’s not in the theatre!’ Raoul Fourmies announced, entering and, failing to notice there was a stranger present, speaking freely as he walked towards the dressing-table, ‘How much of the money’s los-?’

‘Who’s not in the theatre?’ Ballinger inquired, as the artist noticed the pointed stare ‘Devlin’ directed at him and stopped speaking.

‘Who are you?’ Fourmies countered, playing for time in which to form an impression of how the impostor wanted him to reply.

‘This’s Lieutenant Ballinger of the Chicago Police Department,’ ‘Devlin’ introduced, gritting out the words and inwardly cursing the artist’s inopportune arrival.

‘Who is it that’s not in the theatre?’ the detective asked, taking the cloak from the alcove.

‘One of our small part players,’ Vera supplied. ‘He came in drunk tonight and I discharged him.’

‘And you think he may have done this?’ Ballinger suggested, returning with the cloak and indicating the trunk.

‘It was at the back of my mind he could have,’ the impostor replied, realising that Fourmies’ indiscreet words had ruined any chance of passing off the fire as accidental. He had not intended to mention the money in the trunk, but the artist’s reference to it and the actress having been unable to restrain her impatience to check on how much was lost had rendered this impossible. ‘But I wanted to talk to him myself and be sure before I made any accusation.’

‘Huh huh!’ Ballinger grunted non-committally, passing the cloak to Vera. He noticed her hands were black and grimy as well as speckled with sand. Then he glanced into the trunk. It held a number of gold and silver coins, many of which were partially melted or otherwise distorted by the heat of the fire. ‘It looks like there’s a fair sum in here.’

‘There is,’ ‘Devlin’ confirmed, trying to prevent any suggestion that he had more than a casual interest from showing in his voice. ‘Miss Gorr-Kauphin’s not had time to open a bank account, seeing as she’s on tour. So she’s needing it for her expenses.’

‘How much is here, ma’am?’ the detective asked.

‘Almost six thousand dollars,’ Vera answered bitterly, but without mentioning that nearly fifteen hundred of it had been in paper money which was destroyed.

‘Why did you bring it here?’ Ballinger wanted to know.

‘To pay the performers and stagehands,’ Vera lied, but convincingly. ‘I know it was injudicious -’

‘You couldn’t have guessed anything like this would happen,’ ‘Devlin’ consoled, trying to decide how the detective was taking the explanation and failing to draw a conclusion from the expressionless face. ‘Could she, lieutenant?”

‘I reckon not,’ Ballinger answered and took the razor from his pocket. ‘This was lying near your brother, ma’am. Have you ever seen it before?’

‘No,’ Vera stated.

‘How about either of you gents?’ Ballinger continued.

‘Not that I know of,’ the impostor declared and, after Fourmies had also disclaimed all knowledge, went on, ‘What was it doing by Mr Gorr-Kauphin?’

‘I think he saw whoever lit the fire and was hurt when he gave chase,’ Ballinger explained. ‘What did you say the missing feller’s name is, ma’am?’

‘Marcel Tinville,’ Vera answered. ‘Are you saying it was him Colin saw?’

‘I’m only saying what could have happened,’ the detective corrected. ‘The razor was near your brother, but he hadn’t been cut by it -’

‘He could have stepped back to avoid being cut and fallen, though,’ ‘Devlin’ suggested, before Ballinger could elaborate upon his theory.

‘That could have been what happened,’ the detective conceded, deciding against mentioning the discovery he had made. ‘Marcel Tinville sounds French. Is he?’

‘Certainly not!’ Fourmies answered indignantly. ‘He’s from Belgium!’

‘Can you give me a description of him?’ Ballinger requested, returning the razor and taking a notebook and pencil from his inside pocket.

‘We have a photograph of him,’ Vera offered, putting aside her usual antipathy and disinclination to help the police in her desire to be avenged for the loss she had suffered, but she received a scowl of disapproval from the bogus priest.

‘I thought it was in the trunk?’ ‘Devlin’ hinted, aware of the danger if Ballinger should apprehend the missing man and if he was guilty of lighting the fire.

‘Oh dear!’ Vera gasped, taking her cue and producing the kind of reaction that might be expected if the photograph had been destroyed. ‘So it was!’

‘I’ll have to settle for just the description then,’ Ballinger remarked philosophically, opening the notebook.

‘He’s about twenty-five, just over middle height, slim, with brown hair, a neat moustache and chin beard,’ ‘Devlin’ obliged, seeking to be sufficiently vague to reduce the chances of the police finding Tinville. ‘I’m sorry I can’t say more than that.’

‘How about you, Miss Gorr-Kauphin?’ Ballinger requested, writing down what he had been told.

‘I can’t add anything more than “Father Devlin” told you,’ the actress replied. ‘He’s fairly good looking, but not distinguished and there’s nothing special about him.’

‘Do you know where he’s staying?’ Ballinger inquired.

‘At the County Clare Hotel, as we all are,’ Vera answered, having received a barely perceptible nod of authorisation from the impostor. ‘But I shouldn’t imagine he’ll be there after doing this.’

‘It’s a place for us to start looking, ma’am,’ the detective pointed out, then indicated the trunk with a jerk of his pencil-filled hand. ‘One thing’s puzzling me. I can understand him being riled over you firing him, but I’d have thought he’d take the money instead of setting fire to it.’

‘He didn’t know it was there,’ Vera lied. ‘It was under my favourite dress and the manuscript of a play I’m writing. Knowing how much they meant to me, he would think burning them was the best way to take his revenge.’

‘That’d be why then,’ Ballinger declared, putting away the notebook and pencil with every appearance of having accepted the explanation. ‘Well, that’s - !’

The words were interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened to admit the burly, heavily moustached man who had driven the buggy that arrived with O’Halloran’s rock-away coach. He was followed by Phineas Branigan.

‘Somebody whomped old Shamus O’Toole over the head in the alley, lieutenant,’ Sergeant Rory Molloy announced, his Irish voice surprisingly cheerful considering the news he was imparting. ‘There’s a lump the size of a goose egg on it.’

‘Did Tinville do it, Mr Branigan?’ ‘Devlin’ asked, with the combined purpose of informing the man he was addressing who was suspected of lighting the fire, and preventing him from staring with such obvious concern at the trunk.

‘Tinville?’ Branigan growled, swinging a puzzled gaze to the bogus priest.

‘That young actor Miss Gorr-Kauphin fired tonight when he came in drunk,’ ‘Devlin’ elaborated. ‘We think he did this and knocked her brother down the stairs for trying to stop him getting away.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Ballinger remarked, drawing a suspicious glance from Branigan despite his even tone. ‘What’d Shamus have to say about it, Rory?’

‘He reckons he didn’t see who’d done it,’ Molloy replied, being aware from past experience that Branigan’s men did not hesitate to lie if it suited their purpose.

‘A feller Tinville’s size would have to sneak up behind him to do it,’ Ballinger commented and, seeing the sergeant was about to say something, gave what might have been a prohibitive shake of his head. ‘What was Shamus doing in the alley?’

‘He told me he’d gone out for a drink,’ Branigan supplied, wondering if the lieutenant had stopped Molloy speaking for some reason.

‘That ought to teach him not to walk out when a lady’s entertaining,’ Ballinger said dryly. ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do here, Rory. Let’s go and see if Mr Tinville’s at the County Clare.’

‘Be very careful if he is, lieutenant,’ ‘Devlin’ warned, having no wish for the actor to be taken alive so that he could answer questions. ‘He’s in an ugly mood and has a gun.’

‘He’s an excellent shot, too,’ Vera supplemented, realising what the impostor was hoping to bring about. ‘So I wouldn’t take any chances with him if I was you. He’s so dangerous I’m sure nobody will blame you if you have to shoot him when he resists arrest.’

‘Thanks for the warning, ma’am,’ Ballinger said, so soberly that the actress felt certain he would not hesitate to follow her suggestion and open fire on the slightest provocation. ‘Let’s go, Rory - And don’t forget what the lady said.’

1 The researches of Philip Jose Farmer, q.v., suggest that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger’s grandson, Frank, held a similar rank in the Chicago Police Department at a later date and his exploits formed the basis of the 1957 television series, M SQUAD, starring Lee Marvin. J. T.E.

CHAPTER FIVE

A GOOD AND SAINTLY MAN

‘How’d Ballinger get brought into this, “Father”?’ Phineas Branigan inquired, turning and closing the dressing-room door after he had taken the precaution of ensuring that neither of the detectives was eavesdropping outside.

‘O’Halloran asked him to come,’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ replied, puzzled by the local man’s actions and the vehemence with which the question was put. He wondered if he was correct in having revised the impression he had formed on first seeing Lieutenant Edward Ballinger, and whether the other really had taken all that was said at face value. ‘Can you send somebody to the County Clare Hotel before they get there. It’s not likely Tinville’s there. But if he is, I don’t want them to get him.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ Branigan promised, crossing to the shattered window. ‘But it wasn’t Tinville who put Shamus down in the alley.’

‘He said he didn’t know who it was,’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin pointed out.

‘That’s what I told him to say when I saw Molloy coming,’ Branigan replied. He turned and called a name.

“Does he know who hit him?’ the bogus priest asked, after a man had come to the window and been given the requisite instructions.

‘He said it was that broken-nosed, scar-faced bast-,’ Branigan began, then changed the last word of the description out of respect for the actress’s presence, ‘feller who’d come to the front door pretending to be looking for the John.’

‘Pretending?’ ‘Devlin’ prompted.

‘He went there all right,’ Branigan growled. ‘But only so he could go out of the window. Shamus caught him in the alley-’

‘And let him escape,’ Vera said coldly.

‘He’s not the brightest bucko I’ve got, ma’am,’ Branigan answered. ‘The feller tricked him.’

‘When did he come to the door?’ ‘Devlin’ demanded, remembering the man whose questions had disrupted Vera’s attempts to put the audience in a generous mood for the collection that would have been taken if the fire had not brought the proceedings to an end.

‘Just before you came on the stage to thank Miss Gorr-Kauphin,’ Branigan replied.

‘Then it must have been him - !’ the impostor snarled.

‘It couldn’t have been,’ Branigan objected, drawing an erroneous conclusion with regard to ‘Devlin’s’ comment. ‘He wouldn’t have had enough time after he talked to me to get out of the John window, put Shamus down and come in here to start the fire. Anyway, I thought you said Tin-.’

‘Did you know him?’ the impostor interrupted. ‘The man with the broken nose, I mean?’

‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Branigan admitted. ‘But I’d know him again with a face the likes of his.’

‘Was he Irish?’ Raoul Fourmies put in, having drawn a more accurate conclusion than the local man over the reason for the bogus priest’s questions.

‘Sure and what else would he have been?’ Branigan snorted, showing none of the respect that had been apparent when he was addressing ‘Father Devlin’ and the actress. ‘Wasn’t everybody who was here Irish, except for you folks in the show.’

‘Could you tell what part of Ireland he came from?’ the impostor asked. ‘I mean, did he sound like a “Deny Joe”?’

‘I’ve never met one, there’s devil the few of ‘em around here, so I wouldn’t know,’ Branigan replied. ‘And anyway, Father, seeing as how it was yourself’s gave out the invitations, how would a “Joe” have got in?’

‘If one did, it wasn’t by my invitation,’ ‘Devlin’ declared coldly. ‘Was his voice anything like that of the man who kept interrupting Miss Gorr-Kauphin?’

‘I don’t know,’ Branigan admitted, his manner suggesting he had not given the matter any consideration. Then, seeing his attitude was not meeting with the ‘priest’s’ approval, he added in what he hoped would be exculpation, ‘We hardly said more than a dozen words to one another and he didn’t raise any fuss over not being let go out of the front door, so I didn’t see anything wrong with him.’

‘And you didn’t think anything was wrong with that man challenging me as he did?’ Vera asked, realising what was implied by the conversation.

‘No, ma’am, I’ve heard some of my buckoes asking why yourself was helping us against your own people,’ Branigan answered, without mentioning that he had had similar thoughts on the matter. Then, still wishing to avoid any blame for what he guessed had been the loss of the money in the trunk, he pointed at it and went on, ‘And, anyway, even if he was the same feller, he couldn’t have done that.’

‘But he might have been in cahoots with Tinville,’ ‘Devlin’ pointed out.

‘And was keeping us occupied while that frog actor was stealing the money?’ Branigan continued, having had no opportunity to look into the trunk and so drawing the most obvious conclusion for the incident.

‘He’s not French!’ Fourmies protested, wanting to avoid any chance of being implicated with the missing actor on national grounds. ‘He’s from Belgium.’

‘That could have been what they were up to,’ the impostor conceded, paying no attention to the artist and remembering Ballinger had suggested a similar motive for Tinville’s actions. ‘But when Mr Gorr-Kauphin arrived before he could take it out of the trunk, he set fire to it.’

‘You mean he tried to burn the money out of meanness?’ Branigan snarled, advancing. ‘But he’d know the coins wouldn’t catch fire.’

‘The banknotes did!’ Vera spat out, looking with anger at the black stains left on her hands by the ashes. ‘And some of the coins are marked.’

‘Marked!’ the local man ejaculated. He dipped his hands into the trunk and, studying the extent of the damage caused to its contents, he considered the woman was making a gross understatement. Over half of the coins had been affected to a greater or lesser degree by the fire. He was about to inquire how this would influence the purpose for which they were intended when another thought struck him and, dropping the money he had dug up, he peered at the locks. ‘Are you sure Tinville did this?’

‘I can’t think of anybody else who’d the opportunity,’ ‘Devlin’ answered, recollecting the precautions which had been taken. ‘He was the only one down here. Why?’

‘I’d heard he did some “arson” around,’ Branigan replied, straightening up and waving his right hand at the trunk. ‘But not this kind.’

‘What do you mean?’ the impostor demanded, realising what was implied by the pun, but failing to understand how the missing actor’s homosexual tendencies had anything to do with the matter they were discussing.

‘Whoever set off this fire knew fine what he was doing,’ Branigan explained. ‘He didn’t get a blaze that’d do this much damage just with matches. Would Tinville be a firebug, ma’am?’

‘He never mentioned it to me if he was,’ Vera replied. ‘Do you know, Raoul?’

‘He isn’t as far as I know,’ Fourmies answered, guessing that ‘firebug’ was a colloquial term for an arsonist.

‘Whoever did this must have been!’ Branigan declared with complete assurance. ‘Or got whatever was used from somebody who is. On top of that, unless he had the keys, he’d have to know how to pick a lock.’

‘He didn’t have my key, or a chance to make a copy of it,’ Vera stated, clapping a hand to her bosom and feeling the device hanging on its chain around her neck. ‘And one wouldn’t be any use without the other.’

‘Mine’s never been out of my possession either,’ the bogus priest went on.

‘Then whoever did it picked the locks,’ Branigan insisted. ‘You wouldn’t have left it unlocked, I reckon -’ Receiving two vehement nods of agreement, he pointed and went on, ‘And the locks weren’t bust open. So they had to be picked.’

‘That’s true enough!’ ‘Devlin’ concurred, thinking how fortunate it was that the point had not occurred to Lieutenant Edward Ballinger. He also remembered that the absent performer had shown little ability to do anything practical, or which required expert knowledge and skill. ‘Tinville wouldn’t know how to start doing it even. Is there an arsonist in Chicago who can pick locks as well as start fires?’

‘I can think of two,’ the local man replied, having an extensive if not all embracing acquaintance with the city’s criminal classes. ‘But even if Tinville knew where to find them, they’d think twice about taking the chore when they heard me and my buckoes would be here.’

‘One of them might take the chance if he was offered enough money,’ ‘Devlin’ pointed out.

‘It’d be a high price he’d be asking,’ Branigan answered.

‘Tinville doesn’t have a great deal of money,’ Vera remarked.

‘Maybe not,’ the impostor replied. ‘But, if I’m right about the man who interrupted your speech and downed O’Toole, he wasn’t in this on his own.’

‘Do you mean they were working together?’ the actress asked.

‘They could have been,’ ‘Devlin’ confirmed.

‘What would make the other man want to do this?’ Vera inquired.

‘I told you he sounded like a Protestant from up north,’ ‘Devlin’ growled, throwing a baleful scowl at Branigan. ‘Which means he could be an Orangeman^1 and if they’ve heard what we’re up to, they be after stopping us any way they could.

‘The Orangemen?’ Vera repeated. ‘Are there any of them in Chicago?’

‘There’s some,’ Branigan confessed, as every eye turned his way. ‘But not around here. And even if there was, how’d they get to know what’s going on and about the money being here?’

‘Obviously they found out - !’ Vera commenced.

‘Not from any of my men!’ Branigan interrupted indignantly. ‘None of them even knew you were going to take a collection after the show, much less about the money being here.’

‘It must have been M - Tinville who betrayed us,’ Fourmies put in. ‘He knows everything we’re doing.’

‘Why would he do it?’ ‘Devlin’ snarled.

‘He’s been complaining a lot recently about the way you treat him,’ the artist answered. ‘And saying he wished he’d never come to this country.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something about it, you - ?’ the impostor spat out, only just managing to avoid employing language unsuitable to a man of the cloth.

‘I - I thought it was only talk,’ Fourmies replied, wishing he had not drawn attention to himself and, seeking to divert it, continued, ‘Anyway, Colin was saying much the same thing, so -’

‘Colin!’ the actress spat out, her face darkening with anger and voice rising. ‘Are you implying - ?’

‘Excuse me,’ the theatre’s manager said, having brought Vera’s furious tirade to a halt by knocking and entering. His manner was hesitant. Although he had not been able to make out what she was saying, he could tell from the sound of her voice that she was behaving in the irascible fashion which had characterised her demeanour since her arrival. ‘The doctor sent me to ask if you’re ready, Miss Gorr-Kauphin. He said to tell you it isn’t advisable to delay taking your brother to hospital.’

‘I - I don’t feel up to going just yet,’ the actress replied, forcing herself to act in a weak yet anxious manner, but determined not to leave until the discussion was finished. ‘Perhaps you can arrange for me to follow when I’ve recovered, Mr Branigan?’

‘I’ll have you taken in the surrey, ma’am,’ Branigan promised, after receiving a nod of grudging authorisation from the bogus priest.

‘Then you can tell the doctor to leave immediately,’ Vera ordered, with something of her normal imperious tone returning. She tried to soften it as she went on, ‘Ask him to do all he can for poor dear Colin.’

‘I will,’ the manager replied and left, closing the door.

‘How dare you suggest that Colin - ?’ Vera commenced, her bearing changing as she glared at the artist, being less concerned with the charges against her brother than that they might cause her own loyalty to be suspected.

‘I didn’t sug - !’ Fourmies protested, alarmed by the woman’s wrath.

‘Whether you did or didn’t’s beside the point right now!’ “Devlin’ put in, glaring from Vera to the artist and back.

‘The thing is, unless we can lay hands on Tinville or that “Joe” with the broken nose, we won’t know what did happen down here.’

‘He could tell Ballinger too,’ Branigan warned.

‘Ballinger?’ Vera snorted, donning her cloak. ‘Why should he tell Ballinger?’

‘Because Ballinger’s going to be asking him,’ the local man replied, in the manner of one who was stating the obvious.

‘Why would he bother to do that when he’s convinced Tinville is guilty?’ the actress challenged.

‘Is he convinced?’ Branigan countered.

‘He took in everything we told him,’ Vera answered.

‘I wouldn’t count on that, ma’am,’ Branigan stated. ‘There’s not a smarter son-of-a- - man in the Chicago Police Department. If he doesn’t find Tinville, he’ll be going along to ask your brother. Can you count on him not to say too much?’

‘If he’s recovered consciousness before I have to leave the hospital to meet “Father Devlin”, I’ll make sure he knows what to say,’ Vera promised.

‘And what if he hasn’t?’ the impostor demanded. ‘You’ll have to make sure he won’t tell Ballinger anything except what we want him to hear before you come away.’

‘But he might not recover for hours,’ Vera protested. ‘And we have to finalise the deal for the firearms tonight.’

‘I can go alone,’ ‘Devlin’ suggested.

‘You know he’s expecting us both,’ the actress objected, although her main reason was that she did not trust the impostor and had no intention of leaving him alone with even the reduced amount of money in the trunk. ‘So I have to go with you.’

‘You know what’s at stake.’ ‘Devlin’ growled, guessing why the actress was insisting upon accompanying him. ‘And we can’t let it be jeopardised by anybody.’

‘I know that as well as any of you!’ Vera declared.

‘And we have to be certain that Ballinger doesn’t find out what we’re doing,’ the impostor went on. ‘And, even though it’s your own brother in the hospital, we can’t take the chance of him saying anything that’ll betray us.’

‘I’m just as aware of that as you are,’ Vera answered, realising that she was being put to the test. So, in spite of appreciating how drastic the consequences might be for her brother if he had not recovered when the time came for her to leave the hospital, she continued without a moment’s hesitation. ‘If he hasn’t regained consciousness, but will later, you’re free to make whatever arrangements you feel are necessary.’

‘What do you know about Father Devlin, Mike?’ Lieutenant Edward Ballinger inquired, sitting beside Captain Michael O’Halloran in the rockaway coach as it was being driven towards the Streetville Precinct house.

‘He’s a good and saintly man,’ the uniformed officer replied immediately.

‘Have you known him for long?’ Ballinger went on, having received much the kind of answer he expected.

‘Not too long,’ the captain admitted. ‘He’s new to the parish and my duties don’t leave me much time to go to church.’

‘He looked a hard man to me,’ the lieutenant hinted. ‘And I reckon he’d need to be from what I’ve seen of some of his parishioners. Not that I reckon Branigan and his buckoes find much time to go to church either. But they were at the theatre tonight.’

‘And why not?’ O’Halloran challenged. ‘That Miss Gorr-Kauphin’s a fine lady, for all she’s English. And you don’t get too many polite, tea-drinking gentlemen at O’Malley’s. You know how it is down here, Ed. If you’re holding a function and want to make sure it stays peaceable and orderly, having Phineas Branigan and his buckoes around’s the way to do it.’

‘So I’m told,’ Ballinger answered. ‘And I can see how having them in the theatre would keep things quiet and respectable. But I’m not so sure why he’d have Shamus O’Toole and another bucko going around outside it.’

‘It was a free performance,’ O’Halloran pointed out. ‘So they’d be there to stop anybody’s hadn’t been invited sneaking in.’

‘That must be it,’ Ballinger replied, just a trifle sardonically, thinking that it would have taxed the ability of a man as skilled at making an unauthorised entrance as the Yegg - a safe breaker who had helped him to bring about the downfall of a big time criminal^2 - to gain admittance anywhere other than through the theatre’s main entrance unless having inside aid. ‘Is it true that Father Devlin picked everybody who was invited himself?’

‘And who’d a better right, seeing’s how it was him who got Miss Gorr-Kauphin to put on the show?’ O’Halloran challenged. The hint of resentment in his tone was caused by the fact he had not been invited rather than from the detective’s question. Knowing that the local politicians would not welcome too much interest being taken in the night’s entertainment, he sought to divert his companion’s attention from that aspect. ‘Do you think your men’ll pick up that spalpeen’s set fire to herself’s dressing-room?’

‘They’ll get him if he’s there,’ the lieutenant replied, guessing what had provoked the comment and refraining from mentioning that he was far from satisfied with several aspects of the case.

Scientific criminal investigation was still in its infancy, so Ballinger could not call upon the various sophisticated aids which would be available to later generations of law enforcement officers.3 All he had to work with was his intelligence, powers of observation, a knowledge of human nature and an ability to assess character, backed by several years’ practical experience as a policeman. They combined to make him very competent in the performance of his duties. In fact, Branigan had not been exaggerating when telling the other conspirators that he was one of the best detectives in the Chicago Police Department.

Even before he had reached Vera Gorr-Kauphin’s dressing-room and seen the change in her demeanour, Ballinger had sensed there might be something of greater complexity than an ordinary accidental - or even deliberately lit - fire. The more he had seen and been told, the stronger had grown his conviction that much was being omitted in an attempt to mislead him. By the time he had taken his departure, he had been pleased that he had brought along his two most capable subordinates to help look into the rumours he had heard regarding the purpose of the ‘free’ entertainment being held at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre.

Several discrepancies had come to Ballinger’s notice while talking with the actress, Father Devlin, the artist, and Branigan. A skilled interrogator, trained to watch for reactions as well as listening to the manner in which questions were answered, he had been made even more curious by the interplay of looks and responses between them. Every instinct he possessed suggested he was being given false information. Unless he was very mistaken, even the priest had been lying on more than one occasion.

The matter of the trunk and its contents had been the most noticeable example of the party’s attempts at dissimulation. Going by their reaction, neither the actress nor the priest had welcomed the artist’s reference to the money and would have preferred that Ballinger remained unaware of its existence. Although he had kept his doubts to himself, he had been far from satisfied by the explanation he was given regarding its presence in the dressing-room. One aspect in particular was clearly untrue. There had been black ash mingled with the sand used to douse the fire, but it was insufficient to be the remains of a dress and the manuscript of a play. What was more, whoever had caused the conflagration must have possessed an incendiary device of far greater efficiency than just matches and paper. Only a blaze created by the skill of a professional arsonist could have produced so much damage to the coins in such a comparatively short time.

Various aspects of the attacks upon Colin Gorr-Kauphin and Shamus O’Toole had provided the lieutenant with a further source of speculation. Although none of the trio in the dressing-room had admitted to knowing who owned the cut-throat razor, he had suspected that it belonged to the injured actor. In his opinion, a man armed with such a dangerous weapon would be unlikely to kick at an unarmed pursuer instead of using it. That applied whether the person responsible for Gorr-Kauphin’s condition was Marcel Tinville, or O’Toole’s assailant. It seemed likely that they could be working together. Sergeant Damon had learned that the rear door was locked and bolted on the inside, so the latter would have needed the former’s assistance to enter the building, like Sergeant Molloy, Ballinger did not doubt O’Toole was lying when claiming he had not seen his attacker. While such reticence would have been displayed in any circumstances, it was more than likely to have taken place in this instance because of a desire to prevent questions being asked regarding the motive for the attack. Knowing he would be unlikely to be told the truth, Ballinger had pretended to accept the story and had prevented his subordinate from saying anything that might have suggested otherwise.

Despite their apparent conviction that Tinville was the guilty party, it had been obvious to Ballinger that the actress and the priest were not eager to help bring about his apprehension. Nor, if he should be located, had they wanted him to be taken alive and able to answer questions. Their joint description was anything but helpful and ‘Father Devlin’ had been quick to prevent the production of a photograph which could make identification less difficult. Lastly they had said how dangerous the missing man might be and hinted that detectives would be advised not to take any chances when attempting to arrest him.

A less experienced man might have announced his misgivings and demanded to be told the truth, but Ballinger was aware that he must go warily when dealing with a minister of a church. What was more, the rumour he had received about the purpose of the entertainment and the presence of Branigan and his toughs implied that Father Devlin had influential political associations. Further proof of this had been given by O’Halloran’s obvious eagerness to avoid doing anything which might not meet with the priest’s approval. So the lieutenant knew he would need strong evidence and not unproven suppositions before casting doubts on the Father’s veracity.

Being cognisant of that necessity and wanting to avoid warning the people at the theatre of his suspicions, Ballinger had elected to return with the captain instead of accompanying his sergeants to the County Clare Hotel. They were capable of handling any situation that might arise there without needing his supervision. From what little had been said so far, he doubted whether he would learn anything useful from O’Halloran and any attempt to probe more deeply might result in a warning of his interest being sent to the priest. So he decided that he would pay a visit to the Streetville Municipal Hospital as soon as his subordinates had rejoined him and supplied him with a means of transport without allowing the captain to know his intentions. On his arrival, he would see if he could question a person he knew who could tell him what had happened in the theatre’s basement. By doing so, he might discover why a ‘good and saintly man’ had been so determined that the truth would not be revealed.

1 ‘Orangeman’: member of a secret society - named in honour of William, Prince of Orange - found in northern Ireland in 1795 for the purpose of upholding Protestant ascendancy and succession in England. J.T.E.

2 Told in: THE LAW OF THE GUN. J.T.E.

3 Information about modem scientific investigation techniques is given in the author’s ROCKABYE COUNTY series covering the work carried out by a present-day Texas sheriff’s office. J.T.E.

CHAPTER SIX

IF HE LIVES, HE’LL TALK

‘Ballinger didn’t come here because O’Halloran asked him,’ Phineas Branigan announced, on returning to the dressing-room after seeing Vera Gorr-Kauphin leave for the Streeterville Municipal Hospital. He had spoken with, among others, the manager of O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre. ‘Which means he came because he’s heard something and what he’s seen ‘n’ heard’s made him even more sure something’s wrong.’

‘How can you be so sure of that?’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ inquired. ‘He seemed satisfied with what we told him and didn’t question any of it.’

‘No more’n he mentioned that young Gorr-Kauphin was kicked down the stairs when he was asking about the razor and you told him what you thought’d happened,’ Branigan replied, sounding just a trifle worried by having to contradict a ‘priest’. ‘Because that was how he got hurt and not by jumping away from it, then falling.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t know,’ the impostor suggested.

‘He knew all right, “Father”,’ Branigan countered. ‘It was himself’s found it out. And I thought he stopped Molloy from saying something while he was asking about Shamus getting jumped in the alley. I tell you, he’s suspicious and, unless he gets Tinville - which none of us wants him to - he’ll be going to the hospital to ask the lady’s brother who put him there. And that could be as bad as him laying hands on Tinville.’

‘Vera won’t let Colin say anything he shouldn’t,’ Raoul Fourmies protested.

‘She won’t,’ ‘Devlin’ agreed, but with reservations. ‘Providing she’s there when he’s being questioned.’

‘If she isn’t,’ Branigan growled, ‘from what I’ve seen of him, he’ll be saying the wrong things.’

‘That’s more likely,’ the impostor concurred. ‘If Ballinger could fool me, he’ll have no trouble doing it to that stu - to the likes of him.’

‘And he knows everything we’re up to,’ Branigan remarked pensively.

‘Everything,’ ‘Devlin’ conceded, but did not mention this would include matters he had no wish for the local man to learn about. Instead, he looked from one to the other occupant of the room and continued with great gravity. ‘Neither of you needs telling what’s at stake and how he could spoil it.’

‘Can’t your friends stop Ballinger from interfering?’ the artist asked petulantly.

‘Nobody stops Ballinger,’ Branigan replied, although the question had been directed at the bogus priest. ‘Once he gets his teeth into a case, they’re there until it’s finished and there’s devil the few he hasn’t solved before he’s done with ‘em.’

‘This might be one where he fails,’ the impostor pointed out.

‘So it might,’ Branigan concurred, but without conviction or hope. ‘But, even if it is, word of what we’re doing could still get out and then there’d be no sense in going on. It’ll be hard enough without them knowing we’re coming.’

‘Then there’s only one thing for it,’ the bogus priest stated. ‘If Gorr-Kauphin’s sister is around to stop him talking out of turn, all well and good. But if she isn’t, we’ve got to know for certain that he can’t talk. And there’s only one way we can be sure of that, my sons.’

‘How?’ Fourmies wanted to know, the word popping from him like a pistol shot.

‘Call it divine providence, if you will,’ ‘Devlin’ answered and the priestly raiment he wore seemed to increase rather than detract from the sinister malevolence of his expression. ‘Badly injured as he is, he might well die before his time - Especially if he should be smothered by the pillow of his bed getting over his face.’

‘The pillow - ?’ the artist gasped, staring with a lack of comprehension. ‘But how can we be sure it will happen?’

‘Easily enough,’ the impostor replied in the same chillingly unemotional fashion. ‘All you have to do is put it there and push down on it until he’s gone to join his maker.’

‘M - Me?’ Fourmies almost squealed.

‘You wouldn’t be asking the lady to do it to her own dear brother?’ ‘Devlin’ demanded in mocking tones. ‘It wouldn’t be a Christian, nor manly thing to do, now would it?’

‘N - No!’ Fourmies croaked, fighting down an inclination to ask, ‘Why not?’.

‘B - But why m - me?’

‘Sure and aren’t you the best man for the job?’ ‘Devlin’ answered, eyeing the artist with a mixture of contempt and derision. ‘I can’t go, having more urgent business elsewhere as you know. And Mr Branigan and all his men’re too well known, they’d be recognised if they tried it.’

‘But so would I!’ Fourmies wailed, indicating his mass of bushy black beard.

‘There’s something in what you say,’ the impostor admitted, but the manner in which he made the comment warned the artist that the subject was not yet at an end.

‘Excuse me, “Father”,’ a voice called and one of Branigan’s men appeared at the window. ‘That feller from Canada’s just come and he’s got two more like him with him.’

‘Tell them to come in,’ ‘Devlin’ ordered and, after the man had withdrawn, swung his sardonic gaze at the frightened-looking Fourmies. ‘Well now, that’s lucky for you - but I wouldn’t say it was for Miss Gorr-Kauphin’s poor dear brother.’

‘Welcome to my humble abode, sir,’ Belle Boyd said, closing the door of the room she had entered at the Carrick Hotel. ‘Please take the chair.’

‘By gad, dear girl,’ Captain Patrick Reeder answered. ‘I didn’t realise this was to be so formal a meeting.’

‘It isn’t,’ the Rebel Spy corrected, tossing her parasol on to the bed and starting to remove her Kerry coat. ‘But there’s only the one chair.’

Although Belle and the Remittance Kid had remained in the alley and watched Colin Gorr-Kauphin being taken to hospital, they had not continued their discussion of the subject uppermost in their minds. Nor had they attempted to go nearer the theatre and learn what other developments were taking place. Instead, seeing one of the men who must be a detective coming with a patrolman and questioning the onlookers at the rear of the building, they had concluded the time had come to leave the area.

Reaching the small, but clean and respectable establishment at which the Rebel Spy was staying had presented time-consuming difficulties. It was not the kind of place where an unmarried female guest could entertain - no matter how innocently, or for what worthy a cause - a member of the opposite sex in her room after night had fallen. Her unconventional attire had ruled out the possibility of them hailing one of the few cabs they had seen in the comparatively low-rent district they were traversing. Instead, they had behaved - with the Kid resuming his Irish accent - like an ordinary couple out for a stroll. If the way they had kept in the shadows, avoiding other pedestrians, had been noticed as they were retracing the route by which she had made her way to the theatre, it aroused no comment and was probably thought to be for another reason. On reaching the hotel, they had been compelled to wait outside until granted an opportunity to slip in unobserved.

‘Now,’ Belle said, after her instructions regarding the seating arrangements had been carried out. ‘What do you know about this business, Rem?’

‘I haven’t been formally introduced to any of them, fortunately,’ the Kid replied. ‘But I’ve heard the Gorr-Kauphins are well thought of in some theatrical circles. That chappie Fourmies, or some such froggie name, is an artist; although I must say his work’s not to my well developed taste. I don’t know anything about art, dear girl, but I do like a painting to look what it’s supposed to be.’

‘Mercy, doesn’t his work?’ Belle inquired, exuding what appeared to be genuine naiveté and feeling certain that, despite his drawlingly bored tones, the Englishman knew far more than he had implied.

‘From what I’ve seen of it, I think he’s trying to prove an old saying we have in the Rifle Brigade, to whit, “Bull - excreta - baffles brains”,’ the Kid answered, as if imparting serious information. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about the Colonial priest, but perhaps you can enlighten me?’

‘I’m sorry, Rem, but I can’t,’ Belle said, sitting on the dressing-table. ‘There are priests and even one or two higher in the Catholic Church’s hierarchy actively engaged in supporting Irish Republicans, but I can’t remember having heard his name mentioned among them. Is there any more you can tell me about the others?’

‘The Gorr-Kauphins, Fourmies and a Belgian chappie called Marcel Tinville are prominent in anarchist circles in Europe,’ the Kid obliged, having sufficient respect for the girl to accept she had spoken the truth with regards to her lack of knowledge where ‘Father Devlin’ was concerned. ‘When word reached us in Washington that they were coming, it was decided that I should toddle along and see if I could find out to what your country owed the honour. Missed them in New York, though, and when I arrived here, they were associating with our reverend friend. Been loafing around this part of the jolly old city ever since, spending the British tax payers’ money rather lavishly to help me make a few friends.’

‘You’d have to spend money to make friends if you will insist on wearing that horrible nose,’ Belle warned with a gravity she was far from feeling. ‘Seeing it was how I recognised you.’

‘I’ll have you know, dear girl, that nose has been in our family for generations,’ the Kid protested. Then, with scarcely a change in his tone, he became serious and returned to business. ‘Anyway, it helped me to learn about tonight’s little entertainment and I managed to get myself invited.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’ Belle inquired, thinking how much the Englishman’s dry sense of humour, banter and other sterling qualities resembled those of two young Texans, the Ysabel Kid and the boy whose only name was Waco,1 with whom she had been involved - not for the first time in either’s case^2 - during the strange events centred around the Island Mission on the Rio Grande which had been responsible for his presence in the United States.

‘I’ve had more enjoyable experiences,’ the Kid admitted. ‘Such as the time I caught the Malta Dog - ?’

‘The what?’ Belle could not prevent herself from saying.

‘The Malta Dog, dear girl. It’s a nasty little tummy upset one gets in the Mediterranean if one isn’t careful what one eats and drinks. Makes one go very frequently and with a need for haste when it strikes.’

‘I wish I hadn’t asked.’

‘You wouldn’t have needed to ask if you’d ever had it, old thing,’ the Kid stated with feeling, being aware of what it was like to be afflicted by the mild form of dysentery known to British travellers in the Mediterranean as the ‘Malta Dog’. ‘Anyway, I sat through a message-impregnated play, which I must say the rest of the audience found as incomprehensible and boring as I did. Its epilogue was what should have been a rousing “hate the British aristocracy” speech by Miss Gorr-Kauphin, except that it was spoiled when some blighter pointed out that she happens to be both British and an aristocrat.’

‘I always thought you might be a “blighter”,’ Belle smiled, knowing that beneath the levity and almost bored way of speaking, Great Britain had few better, more loyal, resourceful, or courageous servants than the Remittance Kid. ‘Whatever that may be.’

‘One does one’s humble best, dear girl. And, having done it, I decided to slip silently away.’

‘Because you’re so humble?’

‘Partly. But mainly because I thought it might spoil the effect I’d created if somebody had an opportunity to point out I’m English, if not too aristocratic, myself?’

‘What about your aunt, isn’t she the Dowager Duchess of Brockley?’

‘Oh she’s aristocratic all right,’ the Kid admitted, so soberly they might have been discussing a matter of the greatest importance. ‘But, unfortunately, I’m from a very cadet branch of the family.’

‘And - ?’ Belle prompted, after the Englishman had made the explanation and relapsed into silence for a few seconds.

‘And what, dear girl?’ the Kid countered, oozing a lack of comprehension which was almost convincing, but not quite.

‘I can understand why you would want to leave before you were identified, dear boy,’ Belle elaborated. ‘But, having seen them helping that man of Branigan’s from the alley and remembering where you were making for when we met, I wondered if you might have been coming to find out whether Tinville had told you the truth about what was in Vera’s dressing-room.’

‘I don’t like to raise the matter, old thing, but it isn’t done to call a chap “dear boy”,’ the Kid warned. ‘It could get him talked about in a rather nasty way. Who’s this “Tinville”?’

‘You mentioned him by his Christian name just now,’ Belle pointed out, showing no annoyance at the other’s pretended ignorance. ‘Which is more than I knew about him when we first met. I decided he was worth cultivating when I saw he wasn’t on the best of terms with Fourmies and Father Devlin. It seemed Fourmies and he didn’t see eye to eye on who should be Colin Gorr-Kauphin’s best friend and the Father didn’t appreciate or treat him with sufficient respect. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he offered to sell me information which my “gennelman friend” who’s a burglar could use and fix things so he could get inside the theatre to make use of it.’

‘Did he tell you what the money was to be used for?’ the Kid inquired.

Being aware of the Rebel Spy’s ability to make contacts and elicit information, the Englishman was not surprised that she had located Tinville. Nor that she had convinced him of her ‘criminal gentleman friend’s’ existence as a means of winning his confidence.

‘I insisted on it. As I told him, my loving man surely wasn’t about to hand over no thousand lil ole Yankee dollars unless he knew what he was getting into,’ Belle replied, her voice changing to the accent of a Southron from a much lower social level during the explanation and suggesting the part she had played. Resuming her normal tone, she went on, ‘He said it was money collected to help Irish rebels throw the British out of Ireland, but that Father Devlin and Vera Gorr-Kauphin intended to keep it for themselves.’

‘He told me pretty much the same, except that he thought I was an Orangeman who was spying on them,’ the Kid remarked. ‘But I got the feeling there might be more to it than he was saying.’

‘So did I,’ Belle confessed. ‘And I decided it would be advisable to go and see if I could find out for myself what it might be, rather than frighten him off by trying to make him tell me. I also thought that, if nothing more, I’d be able to take the money away with me; but Colin Gorr-Kauphin came in and spoiled that notion.’

‘I had something along those lines in mind myself, old thing,’ the Kid declared. ‘But, being a mere visitor in your fair country, I wasn’t able to equip myself as well as you have done: That was quite a conflagration you started. Would it be impolite if one asked what you used?’

‘A Greek fire concoction containing pieces of phosphorous which ignite when exposed to the air,’3 Belle answered, having no doubt that the British Secret Service used similar aids to incendiarism, but she did not offer to say from where she had obtained the supply. ‘It’s an effective combination. By the time they managed to put it out, the banknotes would have been destroyed completely and the majority of the coins so badly marked they’ll be easy to identify no matter where they show up.’

‘What will the United States Congress have to say when they hear about your little effort?’ the Kid inquired, and the concern in his voice was not assumed. ‘There are members with the Irish vote to consider who might feel you’ve exceeded your authority.’

‘I won’t mention it to them and neither will General Handiman,’ Belle replied. ‘Some of your own politicians might not be too happy over what I’ve done, if it comes to that.’

‘Some of them might not,’ the Kid admitted. ‘But it wouldn’t have stopped me doing as you did if it had been necessary. I’ve spent quite some time in Ireland and I like the Irish people, they’re among the most friendly, hospitable, good hearted and generous in the world. And I’d be the last to pretend there aren’t oppressions being carried out, even if nowhere near as many as dear Vera would have everybody believe. But I can’t see how a bloody civil war costing hundreds, if not thousands, of lives on both sides will solve anything. So, no matter what any blasted politician might want, regardless of his motives, I’ll do all I can to stop it.’

‘Speaking of motives,’ Belle said, realising that only genuine sincerity would have caused the Englishman to drop his laconic pose and therefore concluding that she no longer needed to wonder whether their interests in the affair would be compatible. ‘Why do you think the Gorr-Kauphin crowd are involved?’

‘You know what their kind are like, dear girl. They’re going to build a brave new world they can rule and make it a better place for the likes of you and I.’

‘I doubt whether they would consider you and I as suitable to live in it, dear boy - sorry, new habits die hard too. Are they active in Irish affairs?’

‘They, or some like them, have a finger in every pie.’

‘That’s true,’ Belle admitted. ‘But I’d have thought they would be able to achieve more in either England or Ireland.’

‘Possibly,’ the Kid replied. ‘But it’s safer to be an agitator over here - And more lucrative too, by all accounts.’

‘That’s true,’ Belle conceded, knowing that - particularly in Chicago with its large Irish population - there was much support and considerable fund raising for the cause of liberating Ireland from British rule. So agitating in the city would be less dangerous than in either home country. However, she was convinced the matter went deeper than that. ‘Anyway, I don’t see why we should sit here trying to decide what they’re up to. There’s one person who might be able to enlighten us.’

‘Tinville?’ the Kid suggested, having arranged to meet the young Belgium actor and pay the rest of the sum which had been demanded for the betrayal if the information proved correct, and surmising the Rebel Spy had a similar arrangement.

‘I was thinking of Colin Gorr-Kauphin,’ Belle corrected, with the mild and innocent aura which those who knew her realised meant she was at her most deadly. ‘After all he’s been through tonight, I’m sure he’d appreciate a soothing hand on his brow and then, out of gratitude, he might be willing to bare the secrets of his guilty little soul.’

‘If I was a betting man, a folly to which I must confess I’m not addicted,’ the Kid commented. ‘I’d take the odds I could say whose soothing hand it will be. Unless, of course, somebody else has the same idea.’

‘Not Captain O’Halloran, surely?’ Belle asked, standing up. ‘I can’t see him making a competent investigation, even if Father Devlin and dear Vera would want him to.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of him, old thing,’ the Kid objected. ‘Rather of them. They know her brother far better than we do and I doubt whether they will consider him staunch or reliable. So, knowing that if he lives, he’ll talk, they could decide to make sure he won’t be able to.’

‘It isn’t likely,’ Belle stated. ‘I don’t doubt they would kill him, or that she would be influenced by him being her brother if it was necessary. But, with O’Halloran in charge of the investigation, they won’t think they have anything to fear. At the most, she’ll go to the hospital and stay with him until he recovers and make sure he knows what to say if he should be asked.”

‘Then she might be there when we arrive,’ the Kid pointed out.

‘Possibly,’ Belle answered. ‘But Tinville told me my “boy friend” would have to do the robbery tonight as the money was to be removed after the show and I doubt whether Vera would trust even a priest to do that unless she was with him. Anyway, I think it’s worth going to the hospital and seeing what we can learn.’

‘So do I, dear girl,’ the Kid seconded. ‘But are you suitably dressed for doing it?’

‘As a very good friend of mine would say,’ Belle drawled, glancing down at her masculine attire; although the contours of her slender body removed any suggestion of there being a person of the male gender in it. ‘What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?’

‘Not a thing, as far as I’m concerned, dear girl,’ the Kid replied, in a tone that contrived to be both laconic and emphatic, wondering to which friend the Rebel Spy was referring and drawing an erroneous conclusion over the sex of the unnamed arbiter of feminine costume.4 ‘But it’s hardly what one would expect of somebody, even a lady as lovely as yourself, to wear while laying a soothing hand on one’s brow.’

‘I yield to your superior wisdom, kind sir,’ Belle smiled, crossing the room and opening the wardrobe. ‘Let’s see if I can find something more suitable.’

‘Do you want me to leave while you change?’ the Kid inquired, watching the beautiful young woman unlocking a large trunk and removing some of its contents.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Belle replied, placing the items of feminine clothing and a hat box on the bed. From the latter, she lifted a natural looking fiery red wig, a small bottle of spirit gum and a small container which proved to hold pieces of adhesive plaster. ‘You’re such a gentleman I don’t even need to ask you to turn your back.’

‘I’m not sure that was a compliment,’ the Kid protested, after the Rebel Spy had completed the alterations to her appearance. ‘Shall we go, dear girl?’

‘One can hardly wait, dear boy,’ Belle answered and picked up her parasol.

1 New readers can find details regarding the careers of the Ysabel Kid and Waco in the author’s CIVIL WAR, FLOATING OUTFIT and WACO series. J.T.E.

2 New readers, see APPENDIX ONE, Footnotes 7,8,9,10, and 11. J.T.E.

3 Alvin Dustine ‘Cap’ Fog’s records establish that the ‘Greek fire concoction’ was based upon the composition of benzole, crude petroleum, coal tar, turpentine, residium and coal oil used in the ‘Shell, Liquid Fire’ projectile patented by Alfred Berney of Jersey City, New Jersey, on November the 11th, 1862 (Patent No. 36,834). The No. 76 S.I.P. (Self Igniting Phosphorus) glass bottle hand grenade issued to the British Armed Forces and Home Guard during World War II employed a similar method of detonation. However, its additives were benzine - a colourless derivative of petroleum - and the compound of jellied aluminium soap powder and oil known as ‘napalm’. J.T.E.

4 The identity of Miss Boyd’s friend is disclosed in: THE WHIP AND THE WAR LANCE. J.T.E.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I STARTED THE FIRE

‘We’ve come to ask how that poor Mr Gorr-Kauphin’s getting on, sir,’ Captain Patrick Reeder informed the uniformed porter who was standing behind the reception desk in the entrance hall of the Streeterville Municipal Hospital. For the visit, he had reverted to speaking with a County Londonderry accent. Claiming that it complemented Belle Boyd’s wig and clothes, he had donned his false nose before leaving the Carrick Hotel. ‘Sure and wasn’t it the terrible thing that happened to him?’

When the Rebel Spy and the Remittance Kid had entered by the open double front doors they had found the hall well illuminated, but deserted except for the porter. Although she was now wearing a black jacket and skirt which had been carefully padded to give the impression that she was a much bulkier woman, in order to conceal the masculine attire she had retained, she also wore the Kerry coat. She had not worn the two-piece costume when visiting O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre because, despite the garments having been made to meet with the special requirements of her work, she had anticipated there could be a need for greater freedom of movement than they would permit. In view of what had happened, she considered that the omission had been justified.

‘Are you friends of his?’ challenged a voice from behind the couple, causing them to turn and sending the Kid’s right hand beneath his jacket in the same casual-seeming manner that had misled Shamus O’Toole.

A single glance at the two men who were coming into the hall from a side entrance supplied Belle with all the information she required. She recognised the burly, heavily moustached driver of the buggy which had followed Captain O’Halloran’s rockaway coach for what he was, a detective. More important, she identified his companion.

‘Is your poor back still hurting, honey?’ Belle inquired solicitously, reaching with her left hand to close over the Englishman’s jacket in a way that would prevent him from being able to draw the Webley R.I.C. revolver. However, she did not take her eyes from the more slender of the new arrivals and went on, ‘Why land’s sakes a-mercy! Aren’t you-all Cap’n Dusty Fog’s good friend, Lieutenant Edward Ballinger of the Chicago Police Department, sir?’

‘I am,’ Ballinger admitted, having observed the Kid’s action and drawn an accurate conclusion as to what was going on. He had learned various aspects of practical gun handling from the noted authority on the subject whose name had just been mentioned by the beautiful young woman.1 He found her as intriguing as the possibilities raised by her companion’s apparently innocuous behaviour. While her clothes did not appear to be of better quality than might have been expected in the area, she spoke with the accent of a well-educated Southron and her question was clearly intended as a warning. Walking closer warily, he continued, ‘And, like I said, are you friends of Mr Gorr-Kauphin?’

‘More like admirers, your honour,’ the Kid corrected, taking the hint and bringing his empty hand into view. ‘Sure and after all the good and enjoyable doings at the O’Malley’s, we thought it only right we should call in and ask after himself’s health as we was passing.’

‘Then I reckon you’d better come across to that office over there and tell me what good admirers you are,’ Ballinger stated, holding himself in a position of readiness which would allow him to draw the Webley Bulldog revolver from its forward tilted holster on the right side of his waist belt.

‘If that’s what you’re wanting, sir,’ the Kid assented, taking note of the lieutenant’s posture and realising what was meant by it.

‘We do,’ Ballinger confirmed. ‘Don’t we, Sergeant Molloy?’

‘That we do, lieutenant,’ the burly detective seconded, clenching two ham-like fists.

‘Sure and haven’t I always been the one to do anything a police officer was wanting me to do,’ the Kid declared. ‘Would you lead the way, sir?’

‘After you’ Ballinger countered with a faint grin.

‘Whatever you say, sir,’ the Kid replied, taking Belle’s arm and escorting her towards the door that had been indicated. ‘Don’t be worrying now, Bridget-darlin’, there’s no cause for alarm.’ Lowering his voice, he went on, ‘Is he good?’

‘He was trained by Dusty Fog,’ the Rebel Spy answered, also sotto voce, deducing correctly that her companion was referring to Ballinger’s ability as a gun fighter rather than a detective. Her voice implied that she believed no better recommendation was needed, but she added a compliment. ‘And, as I didn’t want either of you to get hurt when there’s no need for it, I thought a word to the wise was required.’

A lamp was lit in the small office to which the lieutenant had directed Belle and the Kid. Following them in, he asked them to take the two chairs at the far side of the desk. As they obeyed, he perched his rump on the desk and Molloy leaned a shoulder against the side of the door.

‘All right, who are you?’ Ballinger inquired. ‘That nose’s good, mister, but it’s not the one you were born with.’

‘Land’s sakes, I should hope it wouldn’t be,’ Belle put in, before the Kid could reply. She was aware that he had donned the nose as much because of her earlier derogatory comments about it as to change his appearance. ‘But I wish the gentleman I work for was here. He’d be a handy man to have around at a moment like this.’

‘Would he be a general handy man, or a special one?’ Ballinger asked, stiffening slightly and looking with even greater care at the girl.

‘The special one,’ Belle confirmed, delighted at the way in which the craggy-faced detective had drawn the requisite conclusion.

‘Do you reckon you could get us some coffee, Rory?’ Ballinger requested, looking over his shoulder.

‘Shouldn’t be too hard, lieutenant,’ Molloy answered, showing no surprise. ‘Terry Nolan behind the desk there and we walked a beat together before he retired. Is there any rush for it?’

‘Nothing special,’ Ballinger replied and, after the sergeant had left, closing the door as he went, swung his gaze to the couple. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust him, but I reckon anybody who works for that “general handy man” wouldn’t want too many people knowing about it. Mind telling me who you are?’

‘My name is Belle Boyd,’ the Rebel Spy introduced, having noticed that the lieutenant had continued to make the play on her superior’s name into three separate words. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t offer you any verification of it.’

‘I’ve heard tell about you, Miss Boyd,’ Ballinger answered, sounding almost casual. Then, thinking of his theory regarding how Colin Gorr-Kauphin had been injured, he added, ‘They reckon you’re pretty good at that French foot fighting, savate or however it’s called.’

‘I know something about it,’ Belle admitted.

‘More than just something, according to what Betty Hardin^2 told me,’ Ballinger corrected. ‘She reckons you’re as good at it as Dusty Fog is with those fancy fighting tricks he learned from Ole Devil’s Chinese valet.’

‘General Hardin doesn’t have a Chinese valet,’ Belle pointed out, sensing that the comment had been worded as a test for her veracity. ‘Tommy Okasi claims he is “Nipponese” and was brought here by General Hardin’s father from Japan.’3

‘By golly, you’re right, he does!’ Ballinger conceded, but nothing in his demeanour gave a clue as to whether or not he regarded the correction as proof of the Rebel Spy’s bonafides. ‘Without seeming nosey, except that doing it’s my duty, you’ve only answered half of my question.’

‘This is Captain Patrick Reeder of the Rifle Brigade,’ Belle introduced hoping the Englishman would realise that their only hope of obtaining the grim-faced, very competent detective’s co-operation was by being frank.

‘I’ve heard of you, Colonel Boyd,’ Ballinger declared, the use of the Rebel Spy’s official rank combining with the tone of his voice to suggest that he approved of whatever information he had received. However, there was a noticeably less cordial timbre to his words as he turned his attention to the other man. ‘Pleased to meet you, Captain Reeder. Only I don’t recollect ever having heard of a Rifle Brigade - in the U.S. Army.’

‘Neither have I, old boy,’ the Kid admitted, once again following his companion’s lead in how to treat the detective and reverting to his British upper class manner of speaking. ‘And, even if there is one, I don’t have the honour to serve with it. We are the 95th Regiment of Foot and I hold my commission from Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria.’

‘And you’re over here on a vacation, I reckon,’ Ballinger commented.

‘With all due disrespect, old chap,’ the Kid replied amiably, ‘I doubt whether you “reckon” any such thing.’

‘I don’t, to tell you the truth,’ Ballinger admitted with a grin. ‘I’m only a half-smart local lawman, but I’d say you’re in the same line of work as Colonel Boyd. Only maybe not for the same “general handy man” who employs her.’

‘I am,’ the Kid confessed. ‘But for a different employer.”

‘But you’re both after the same thing?’ the lieutenant guessed.

‘We are,’ Belle confirmed, glancing at and receiving a barely perceptible nod from the Englishman.

‘And that thing’s got to do with the show at O’Malley’s tonight?’ Ballinger went on, although his words were more in the nature of a statement than a question.

‘It is,’ Belle confirmed. ‘We were there to find out what was behind it.’

‘Together?’ the detective challenged, remembering that he had been told it was to be an all-male audience.

‘Independently,’ Belle corrected. ‘We met outside.”

‘Before or after the fire?’ Ballinger said quietly, thinking of the Rebel Spy’s way of defending herself without weapons and the deductions he had formed with regard to the injured actor.

‘Just after it started,” Belle replied, knowing that the next few seconds would be decisive if all she had heard about the lieutenant’s ability as a detective was true.

‘You wouldn’t have met somebody just before you met Colonel Boyd at the back door, would you, Captain Reeder?’ Ballinger suggested, swinging his gaze to the Englishman. “Not far from the open toilet window in the alley, say.’

‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ the Kid confirmed, his respect for the detective having increased with each succeeding question. ‘A rather large, aggressive chappie who seemed to take exception to my leaving before the show was over. We agreed to differ on the matter and I went on my way rejoicing.’

‘Huh huh!” Ballinger grunted, having an idea how the ‘agreement’ had been reached and, knowing the nature of the ‘large, aggressive chappie’, more pleased than indignant over the assault. However, he began to see what was implied by the Englishman’s admission. ‘And then you met Colonel Boyd?’

‘Yes,’ the Kid agreed.

“Did you “agree to differ” with anybody, Colonel Boyd?’ Ballinger asked, bringing his eyes back to the girl and there was something different, less approving, in his manner.

‘I kicked Colin Gorr-Kauphin down the stairs when he came after me with a razor,’ Belle replied, aware that she was approaching the most difficult part of the interrogation. ‘And I started the fire.”

‘God damn it!’ Ballinger thundered, memories of the great conflagration which had decimated so much of Chicago causing him to lose his relaxed posture and bringing him to his feet exuding a furious menace. ‘You set fire to the dressing-room?’

‘To the trunk,” Belle corrected, realising that the lieutenant’s anger was caused by discovering a member of the United States Secret Service was responsible. ‘And I wouldn’t have done it if there had been any other way -’

‘You could have burned down the whole god-damned theatre and killed everybody in it!’ Ballinger pointed out savagely.

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Belle snapped back, rising with such an expression of anger she caused the detective to take an involuntary step away. ‘When I did it, I was sure Gorr-Kauphin wouldn’t dare to try anything except raising the alarm. Instead, he came after me with that razor. Even then, I would still have warned the audience as he couldn’t, but I heard and saw enough to tell me somebody already knew and I could leave without any of them being endangered.’

‘You had a good reason for doing it?’ Ballinger asked, in a softer voice and, once again, the words were more of a statement than a query.

‘A very good reason,’ Belle declared, but was not allowed to continue with her explanation.

‘Excuse me, lieutenant,’ Sergeant Molloy said, having knocked and entering with the hotel porter on his heels. ‘Terry here says that Miss Gorr-Kauphin didn’t stay with her brother, but she sent a priest to be with him when he comes round.’

‘A priest,’ Ballinger repeated. ‘Isn’t it Father Devlin?’

‘No,’ replied the porter, the question having been directed at him. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

‘What does he look like?’ Belle put in, remembering the Kid’s comments about the possibility of the anarchists attempting to silence the injured actor.

Tattish, maybe five foot eight,’ the porter answered and, such was the strength of the Rebel Spy’s personality, he had commenced the description even before glancing at and receiving a nod of authorisation from Ballinger. ‘He sounded sort of French and his face was chapped liked he’d been out in a real cold wind.’

‘There hasn’t been one recently,’ the lieutenant growled.

‘That’s why I noticed it,’ the porter replied.

‘It would look that way if he’d just shaved off a beard,’ Belle pointed out, throwing the Kerry coat from her shoulders. ‘Come on. You were right, Rem!’

‘What do you mean?’ Ballinger demanded.

‘It’s Fourmies dressed as a priest!’ Belle answered, crossing the room. ‘And he’s been sent here to kill Colin Gorr-Kauphin!’

1 Lieutenant Edward Ballinger’s first meeting with Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog - grandfather of Alvin Dustine ‘Cap’ Fog, q.v., and details of whom career are given in the author’s CIVIL WAR and FLOATING OUTFIT series - is described in THE LAW OF THE GUN and a second is recorded in: THE FORTUNE HUNTERS. J.T.E.

2 Betty Hardin: ‘granddaughter’ of General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin, C.S.A. - although there is some doubt about their actual relationship which Alvin Dustine ‘Cap’ Fog cannot, or will not, clear up - and cousin of Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty Fog, q.v. She appears in: KILL DUSTY FOG!, THE BAD BUNCH, McGRAW’S INHERITANCE, THE RIO HONDO WAR and GUNSMOKE THUNDER. J.T.E.

3 Although Tommy Okasi - an Americanised corruption of the name he adopted - served as valet for General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin, he was a trained Samurai warrior. Details of his early career and that of the General are given in the author’s OLE DEVIL HARDIN series. He taught Betty Hardin and Dusty Fog jujitsu and karate. J.T.E.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HE WANTED YOU DEAD

Raoul Fourmies’ hands were shaking a little as he straightened up and removed the pillow he had been pressing on Colin Gorr-Kauphin’s face, but not with fright or remorse over what he had done. Rather he was elated by the ease with which he had accomplished the assignment he now believed all his fellow conspirators had been afraid to tackle. He gave no thought, as he took his victim’s right wrist between his left thumb and forefinger, that his present euphoric state of mind had been created by the cocaine he had received from ‘Father Matthew Devlin’. Satisfied there was no longer even the weak pulse beat he had felt before, he released the wrist and made ready to take his departure.

Although the artist had not been enamoured of the prospect of being sent to kill Gorr-Kauphin, he was too terrified by the bogus priest to make an outright refusal. He had hoped that the new arrivals announced by Phineas Branigan’s lookout in the alley of O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre might relieve him of the unpleasant and perhaps dangerous duty. Unfortunately, while willing to act in a supportive role, their leader had declined to carry out the assassination. Nor had Fourmies’ belief that the removal of his hirsute adornment would mark his face to such an extent that he would be unsuitable as a candidate for the killing proved any more fruitful. One of Branigan’s men was a trained barber and produced everything that was required to remove his bushy black beard with no more than a reddening of the exposed skin. Preparing the rest of the disguise had posed no greater problems. During the entertainment which preceded Vera Gorr-Kauphin’s interrupted fund-raising speech, he had played the part of a priest. The attire he had worn was to be utilised as an aid to gaining admittance to her brother’s room at the hospital.

The actress’ return from the Streeterville Municipal Hospital, with the news that her brother was expected to live but had not yet regained consciousness, had ended any chance of Fourmies’ mission being considered unnecessary. Faced with the realisation that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger was suspicious and almost certain to interview Gorr-Kauphin, Vera had raised no objections on being told what was being planned.

In spite of all the assurances he was given that nothing could go wrong, Fourmies had had to be supplied with a dose of cocaine before he was in a suitable mental condition to be sent on his mission. By the time he had arrived at the ‘ hospital, he was - although the term had not yet come into usage - sufficiently ‘high’ to have become convinced he was carrying out the necessary, even praiseworthy, execution of a traitor to the great cause for which he was working. Nor had his spirits deserted him when the three newcomers who had accompanied him and the driver of the fringe-top Surrey - another of Branigan’s men - in which they had been transported from the theatre had insisted upon remaining outside when he had suggested they should go in with him. Rather he had been amused by what he had considered was an example of their timidity. The task of obtaining admittance to his victim’s presence had been ridiculously simple. Accepting him as a genuine priest sent by the injured actor’s sister, the porter at the reception desk had told him where to go and did not offer to check his bona-fides. As Colin Gorr-Kauphin was still unconscious and alone, he had been able to complete his assignment without the slightest interference.

Darting a glance around the small room, the artist decided with annoyance there was nothing worth the effort of taking away. Then he reached beneath his jacket and pulled the double barrelled shot pistol with which he had insisted upon arming himself from its place of concealment. Thrusting it once more into his trousers waistband, but at the front where it would be more readily accessible although hidden beneath his flowing cloak-coat, he swaggered away from the bed. Having the weapon in his possesssion had done much to bolster his narcotic-induced courage. He had already killed two people with it, unarmed members of the audience at an opera house in Paris which he and some of his fellow anarchists had raided shortly before his departure with the Gorr-Kauphins. So, supported by the effects of the cocaine, he was satisfied he could use it to defend himself should the need arise.

As Fourmies was opening the door and stepping into the passage, various sounds he heard from the entrance hall and the stairs leading up from it warned him that he might have need of the weapon.

‘Where is Gorr-Kauphin?’ Belle Boyd demanded, as she was passing between Sergeant Rory Molloy and the hotel porter, looking through the door neither had closed on their arrival.

‘Up on the second floor,1 ma’am,’ the porter replied. “Room Twelve, on the right.’

‘I’ll come and show you, ma’am,’ Molloy offered, knowing his way around the hospital, showing a speed of movement that seemed at odds with his bulk, as he turned and followed the departing Rebel Spy.

Throwing a glance at Captain Patrick Reeder, Lieutenant Edward Ballinger noticed he had left his seat and was striding forward, reaching behind his back. Without waiting to confirm his suspicion over the reason for the latter action, the lieutenant drew his Webley Bulldog as he had been taught by Dusty Fog. Even as it was leaving its forward inclined holster, he saw a short barrelled Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver emerging from beneath the Englishman’s jacket and knew his earlier conclusions had been correct. He also heard the rapid patter of heavy and lighter feet crossing the entrance hall.

‘Come on!’ Ballinger ordered, gambling upon Belle Boyd’s as well as his own judgement of character and accepting that the Remittance Kid could be trusted.

Leading the way past the hospital porter, who was stepping aside to let him pass, the lieutenant saw that the Rebel Spy was racing towards the staircase with Molloy close on her heels. As he was setting off after them, followed by the Englishman, he noticed that the girl was throwing aside what he assumed to be all of her parasol. However, he was not granted an opportunity to ponder on the reason for her actions.

No coward, the hotel porter was aware of his limitations. The injury to his left leg which had brought about his retirement from the Chicago Police Department precluded him from moving swiftly. So he was compelled to let the visitors conduct what he realised was an urgent investigation. However, curiosity and a sense of duty caused him to follow them from the office. Instinct rather than any other reason led him to glance at the main entrance. What he saw brought him to an instant halt.

The appearances and attire of the two men who were advancing menacingly through the open double doors would have attracted the porter’s attention even if it had not been for the long barrelled Colt 1860 Army revolver each was carrying. Tall and lean in build, their features were more deeply tanned than was common with city dwellers and were also somewhat aquiline. They wore flat-topped brimless hats made from fur of some kind which hid most of their hair. Although they had on three-piece dark suits, red and blue check shirts with the collars fastened, but no ties, only the top button of each’s vest was fastened. Around their waists were wide sashes of multi-coloured cloth. If the porter had troubled to look, he would have found that their footwear was of a kind very rarely seen in Chicago. What he did notice was that yet a third man, who appeared to be dressed in a similar fashion, was standing in the shadows outside and making no attempt to come after them.

‘To the right, lieutenant!’ the porter yelled, as the pair stopped on seeing their presence had been detected.

Taking in the basic details while skidding into a pivoting halt, Ballinger responded to the threat as he had been trained during his visit to Texas. He was not sure with what kind of men he was dealing, but his instincts warned they were possessed of a greater competence than the majority of the local population - who tended to rely upon more rudimentary means of attack and defence - where firearms were concerned. So, as he was turning, his left hand joined the right to give added support as he was raising the Webley at arms’ length to shoulder height. Furthermore, although the weapon had a double-action mechanism which rendered manual cocking unnecessary, he drew back the hammer with his thumb.

Sighting at the man on the right, who was reacting more rapidly than his companion, the detective squeezed the Webley’s trigger. The precaution of having cocked the hammer manually proved worthwhile by reducing the pressure required to cause its liberation from the sear. Driving forward, it struck and detonated the primer of the cartridge in the chamber’s uppermost cylinder. Even as the powder charge was being ignited and his shooter’s instincts suggested he was holding true on the target, he became aware of the third man’s presence beyond the pair. He realised that he could not hope to make a hit, then cope with two more assailants before one or the other opened fire at him.

Close behind Ballinger, the Kid duplicated his summations and employed an almost identical technique to help. Nor was he any less effective in his handling of the Webley R.I.G. revolver. Its deeper bark made an echo to the crack of the .41 calibre Bulldog. Showing that he had judged correctly how the detective was assessing the situation, he selected the second most dangerous of the newcomers. Hit in the centre of the forehead, the man at the left of the leading pair spun around. As he was going down, his hat fell off and long brown hair cascaded from beneath it.

Ballinger had been less fortunate!

Backed by the knowledge of how certain ‘liberal’ politicians in the city responded when a police officer was compelled to defend himself with a firearm, the lieutenant’s desire to take a living prisoner who could answer questions caused him to try to wound rather than kill. To a certain degree, he was successful. The bullet he had sent at the right side man’s leg merely inflicted a graze instead of striking bone and achieving the purpose for which it was intended. While its recipient staggered and his own shot missed Ballinger’s head by no more than three inches, he neither dropped the Colt nor lost his resolve to use it. What was more, the deft way in which he cocked the hammer on the recoil warned that he was extremely competent.

As well trained as any gun fighter from west of the Mississippi River, the Kid did not wait to find out what the detective meant to do. Nor did he have the other’s need to worry about how the city’s ‘liberal’ politicians might regard his actions. Swinging the R.I.C. While it was still at the height of its recoil kick, he cocked and brought it into a fresh alignment. As he was tightening his right forefinger on the trigger, he discovered that Ballinger was adopting a similar course. However, it was too late for him to stop what he was doing. Their weapons roared in unison. Either of the bullets which ripped into the man as he was trying to bring his Colt back into use would have been fatal. Combined, they knocked him backwards and it sent its second load harmlessly into the ceiling.

Although the shadowy figure outside the hospital’s front doors had been responsible for the other two’s participation, he made no attempt to continue the task upon which they were engaged or to avenge their deaths. Unlike them, he had been in Chicago for long enough to have recognised Ballinger. He was aware of the detective’s ability as a gun fighter and decided that the Kid, who he assumed to be another detective, was no less dangerous. So he concluded that discretion was the better part of valour. Instead of using the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker he was holding, he turned and began to run in the direction from which he had come.

‘Go after him, old chap!” the Kid suggested, watching the second intruder falling and the third retreating.

‘Upstairs is more important!’ Ballinger answered and started running again.

Side by side, the detective and the Englishman crossed the hall. They were ascending the stairs when they heard the thunderous blast of a shotgun. Knowing neither Belle nor Sergeant Molloy was armed with such a weapon, they exchanged alarmed glances.

The fringe-top Surrey^2 in which Raoul Fourmies and his companions had travelled from the theatre had been left in an alley on the opposite side of the street and about a hundred yards away from the hospital. Instead of following the orders he had been given on their arrival the driver, having heard the shooting, had climbed down and was peering anxiously around the corner of the building.

‘What the hell’s happened?’ the driver demanded as the man who had deserted his companions approached at a run.

‘Everything’s going wrong!’ the deserter answered, his accent suggestive of French origins although his English was excellent. ‘Go and warn “Father Devlin” - !’

‘But what about Fourmies and your - ?’ the driver began, speaking over his shoulder as he started to board the vehicle.

‘They’re dead and he’ll have to take his chance,’ the deserter answered savagely, having halted at the entrance to the alley. ‘Do as I say, damn you! Tell him that Ballinger is here and I’m staying to see if I can learn anything and will join him later.’

Without the need for further urging, realising that the commotion at the hospital was attracting attention and would soon be bringing people to investigate, the driver set his horse into motion. Watching him go, the deserter gave a sardonic grunt. Then, returning the Colt to his sash so it was hidden by the right side of his vest, he swung around and looked towards the hospital.

Wishing that she could dispense with her skirt, which was tailored so that it could be discarded rapidly if circumstances permitted, the Rebel Spy was approaching the top of the stairs when the sound of shooting reverberated from the entrance hall. She heard the thudding of heavy footsteps ascending close behind her, but did not try to discover which of the men from the office was following her.

Having no doubt that she had drawn the correct conclusion with regard to Colin Gorr-Kauphin’s visitor, Belle was pleased to know help was on hand. Although she was an excellent shot, she had not brought a firearm with her. However, that did not mean she was without a weapon of any kind. The handle section of her parasol, which she was still grasping in her right hand, supplied one of great effectiveness at close quarters. Yet, despite being confident that she could hold her own against the artist if necessary, she realised having assistance readily available would make the task both easier and safer.

Alarmed by the disturbance from below, Fourmies was staring towards the stairs as he left Room Twelve and started cocking the hammers of his shot pistol. He was surprised when the first person to come into view was a shapely and beautiful young woman. There was something purposefully grim and determined about her face which was alarming even without the sight of the burly detective sergeant following her. Snarling in mingled rage and fright, the artist began to back away along the passage. In spite of the narcotic-induced false courage, his hands were far from steady as he prepared to use his weapon.

Although Sergeant Molloy had heard stories about the Rebel Spy during the War Between The States and had been aboard the United States Navy’s steam-sloop Water-bury when she had helped to damage it severely in Brownsville’s harbour,3 he did not connect her with the young woman running ahead of him. So he was surprised at the way in which she was behaving and, realising what the man dressed as a priest was doing - he failed to recognise Fourmies as the heavily bearded artist he had seen at the theatre - he felt it was up to him to protect her.

Shooting forward his big right hand, the sergeant caught Belle by the shoulder and gave a jerking thrust that sent her sideways across the passage. Having pushed her into what he considered would be a place of safety, he strode onwards and his hand dipped to where he had a Colt Cloverleaf House Pistol - a revolver in spite of its name - tucked in the right side pocket of his trousers. It was not carried in a fashion conducive to a rapid withdrawal. Nor did he have the training, instincts and lightning fast reflexes of a gun fighter.

Born in an age long before the term ‘male chauvinist’ came into being, Molloy had been motivated by more than just a belief that such a perilous situation could not be coped with by a woman. Seeing the weapon held by the man in front of them, his Catholic upbringing revolted at an impostor wearing the sacrosanct attire of a priest. So he continued to advance regardless of the danger.

Still backing away and gibbering frightened curses in his native tongue, Fourmies thrust out the shot pistol and jerked at its forward trigger. There was a bellow made even more thunderous by the confines of the passage and the muzzle blast glowed brilliantly in the comparatively poor light thrown by the two lamps supplied for illumination. Flung from the right side barrel by the gasses of the detonated black powder, all nine .32 calibre buckshot balls of the load ripped into Molloy’s torso and he was knocked backwards.

Sent away from the line of fire, Belle was brought to a halt by colliding with the passage wall. In spite of being caught unawares by the sergeant’s action, she had managed to twist herself and let her left shoulder take the impact. Furthermore, her head was lowered and she was not too badly dazzled by the red glare when the pistol went off. Glancing around as she heard the lead driving into Molloy, she saw him going down and knew he had sacrificed his life to save her. Fury filled her and, gripping the handle of the parasol more tightly, she thrust herself forward.

For all Belle’s anger, she was not acting in a blind and reckless rage. Rather she was planning her movements with the swift, clear thinking precision which had kept her alive in many a desperate and dangerous situation. One of the factors she was taking into consideration was the disadvantage of every short barrelled, large calibre weapon like the shot pistol when fired. The extremely heavy recoil made it difficult to control. So she felt sure that the rolling dive she was commencing would take her into a range at which the potent weapon she was carrying could be brought into action before Fourmies was able to take aim at her.

Seeing what the Rebel Spy was doing, fear drove the artist to respond with alacrity. Making a desperate effort, controlled the shot pistol as it rose to the thrust of the recoil and began to turn its barrels downwards.

Even as Belle was coming to her knees and realising she had underestimated Fourmies’s ability to cope with the weapon’s recoil, she was already swinging the parasol’s handle. Doing so caused it to display its secondary - primary, in fact, under the circumstances - function. The motion caused a short steel rod ending in a ball to emerge from where it was telescoped into the powerful coil spring which followed it from the handle. On the other occasions when she had employed the spring-loaded billy, it had proved effective and she knew her life depended upon it continuing to do so.

Having come into view at that moment, the Remittance Kid and Ballinger brought up their Webleys. Once again, they fired almost simultaneously and produced equally fatal results.

With the steel ball at the tip of the billy whipping around under the added impulsion of the spring to catch and knock aside the barrels of the shot pistol, Belle saw the bullets striking the artist. One entered just below his right eye and the other, sent by the Kid, punctured a hole .476 of an inch in diameter through the centre of his forehead. Both shattered their way out of the back of his skull.

Although Fourmies was sent reeling and killed instantly, Belle would have shared his fate if she had not delivered the blow with her billy. Fired by an involuntary muscular spasm at the moment of its wielder’s death, the shot pistol’s barrels were deflected and the second charge flew into the wooden floor of the passage. Dazzled by the muzzle blast and momentarily deafened by the bellow of the discharge, she neither saw nor heard the artist as he fell.

‘Are you all right, Belle?’ the Kid asked in a concerned voice, hurrying forward and gently raising the girl to her feet.

‘Y - Yes, he missed me!’ the Rebel Spy replied, after shaking her head and blinking until her vision cleared and her ears stopped ringing. Looking down she went on, ‘Damn it. I wanted him alive!’

‘We would have preferred it too, dear girl,” the Kid answered. ‘But we didn’t have any choice. He wanted you dead!’

‘I could have - !’ Belle began, then stiffened as she realised her reaction was being caused by the narrow escape she had had. ‘I’m sorry, Rem.’

‘Think nothing of it, old thing,’ the Kid replied.

‘Is he - ?’ Belle inquired, looking to where Ballinger was standing alongside Molloy’s body.

‘Yes,’ the lieutenant said quietly and bitterly.

‘He pushed me aside and went on to try and tackle Fourmies,’ Belle explained, half to herself.

‘That’d be Rory’s way all right,’ Bellinger declared, thinking how he might have been lying on the floor instead of the sergeant if they had not met the Rebel Spy and the Englishman. On learning of the ‘priest’s’ visit, they would have come to investigate and as senior officer, he would have been in the lead. ‘He was all man and a damned good detective.’

‘I’m going to avenge him!’ Belle promised, ramming the telescoping sections of the billy into the parasol’s handle with an almost symbolic gesture.

‘You’ll have my help to do it,’ the Remittance Kid stated.

‘And mine,’ Ballinger seconded, hearing voices and footsteps as members of the hospital staff came to investigate the disturbance. ‘Let’s take a look at young Gorr-Kauphin, but I think we’re too late to save him.’

1 Unlike in the United Kingdom, the ground floor of a building is referred to as the ‘first’ and the one immediately above it the ‘second’ floor in the United Stales J.T.E.

2 ‘Fringe-top Surrey’: a light four-wheel, four-seat passenger vehicle having a decorative hood and considered more stylish and elegant than a buggy. J.T.E.

3 Told in: THE BLOODY BORDER. J.T.E.

CHAPTER NINE

TINVILLE MIGHT KNOW THE ANSWER

‘If only I’d been carrying a gun - !’ Belle Boyd began bitterly, after having paced restlessly around the small office on the ground floor of the Streeterville Municipal Hospital for a few minutes.

‘The sergeant would have done exactly the same thing,’ Captain Patrick Reeder interrupted gently and with none of his usual laconic levity. ‘To his way of thinking, the situation was too dangerous for a woman to be involved.’

‘I know,’ the Rebel Spy sighed. ‘But it’s the second time a man has been killed for thinking the same thing.’1

Out of consideration for the kind of work upon which Belle and the Remittance Kid were engaged, Lieutenant Edward Ballinger had changed his mind about taking them into Room Twelve to see whether Raoul Fourmies had killed Colin Gorr-Kauphin. To have done so would have meant that their official status could not have been concealed from the members of the hospital staff who were already approaching. Instead, he had claimed they were innocent by-standers who had been on their way to visit a friend. Although the porter had known this was untrue, he had supported the story by stating he had let them in because they could not come at the regulation visiting period. To make the deception appear genuine, Belle had given the impression of being very distressed and the Kid once more employed his Irish accent. Ballinger had sent them to wait in the office, ostensibly to obtain their statements as witnesses.

Before the Kid could ask when the first occasion had occurred, the door opened and Ballinger walked in. He was carrying a fur hat, a brightly coloured cloth sash with a knife in a decorated and fringed leather sheath attached to it, and a pair of heelless rawhide boots with calf length legs.

‘Have either of you seen anything like these before?’ the lieutenant inquired, closing the door and crossing to lay the articles on the desk.

‘They’re an Indian-made belt, sheath and moccasins, as you already know,’ Belle replied, ‘But I’m afraid I couldn’t even start to guess at from which tribe they originated and I’ve never seen a hat like that.’

‘How about you, Captain Reeder?’ Ballinger asked.

‘I can’t claim to be an authority, or any such rot, of course,’ the Kid warned, picking up the hat and examining it. ‘But I’ve seen something like this, as well as the belt and moccasins, worn by French Canadians and the Metis in particular.’

‘Metis?’ Ballinger queried.

‘It’s a corruption of the French word, “metissage”? which means - or so I’m told, “miscegenation”,’3 the Kid explained sounding more ashamed than pleased that he was able to display such erudition. ‘In Canada, “Metis” is the name^1 given to people of mixed French and Indian birth.’

‘Then that’s what the two we killed could be,’ Ballinger said thoughtfully. ‘From the look of their necks, neither had been used to having his shirt collar buttoned and the state of their feet showed that they’d never worn anything with harder soles than these moccasins. They were even darker than just well tanned and their faces had a sort of Indian look. Their hair was shoulder long, too, but one wai brown and the other reddish and every Indian I’ve seen,: which isn’t many, always had black hair. Was Fourmies a French Canadian?’

‘Parisian,’ the Kid supplied, impressed by the thoroughness with which the lieutenant had carried out the examination of the men killed in the entrance hall. ‘As far as I know, he’s never even been to Canada.’

‘He hasn’t,’ Belle confirmed. ‘Unless Tinville lied to me. With the exception of Father Devlin, this is the first visit to the New World for all of them.’

‘I reckon we’d better finish that talk we were having,” Ballinger stated, looking from the girl to the Englishman and back again, then indicating the chairs they had occupied before the return of Sergeant Molloy. ‘What’s going on?’

“You know the purpose behind the free entertainment this evening, don’t you?’ the Kid suggested, after they were all seated.

‘From what I heard, it was fund raising for helping Irish Republicans,’ Ballinger replied. He considered the way in which the Englishman had worded the question was a tribute to his ability as a police officer and not an accusation of complicity in the affair. His gaze went to the Rebel Spy as he continued, ‘As I know the way Phineas Branigan and his buckoes go about taking collections, I thought it’d be as well if I was on hand in case they started doing it at the theatre. Thing I don’t get, Colonel Boyd, is why you became involved and did what you did.’

‘Because it is imperative that the United States shouldn’t be proven to be involved in supplying the means for a confrontation, or a civil war, between two parts of the British Isles,’ Belle replied. ‘Which, no matter what your personal sentiments might be, is Ireland’s status under law.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Ballinger admitted frankly.

‘Shall I explain, Rem,’ Belle asked, ‘or will you?’

“You, if you wish, dear girl,’ the Kid authorised, almost disinterestedly if his tone was any guide to his true emotions; not that either the girl or the detective believed this was so.

‘Do you remember the findings of what has become known as the Alabama Arbitration Tribunal, lieutenant?’ Belle inquired, after giving a swift resume of the discussion she had had with the Englishman in her room at the Carrick Hotel.

‘Sure,’ Bellinger admitted and darted a frosty grin at the Englishman. ‘They were real popular, particularly in this part of town, when the report of them was given in the newspapers.’4

‘I can imagine they would be,’ the Kid answered, showing; not the slightest animosity. ‘My aunt, the Dowager Duches of Brockley, was something less than enthusiastic when she heard. In fact, she had to be forcibly restrained from going and horse-whipping every member of the jolly old Tribunal.’

‘The point is,’ Belle continued, seeing that the detective was amused by the response to his comment, ‘ever since that award was made, Congress - or most of it - has been aware of the need to tread very warily where anything that might be regarded as an infringement of British interests is concerned. And that is how collecting money for arms to be employed in an uprising against British rule in Ireland could be - in fact almost certainly would be construed by the British Government.’

‘There’re some who might say you haven’t picked the best way of avoiding that,’ Ballinger pointed out. ‘From what I saw of it, the money in the trunk was pretty well all marked by the fire and could be easy to identify.’

‘Which is why I set off the fire,’ Belle replied. ‘If the money was to be used for the purchase of arms and ammunition, the kind of dealer they will have to go to won’t be willing to accept coins which are so marked and easily traceable.’

‘There has to be more to whatever Miss Gorr-Kauphia and Father Devlin are up to than just that,’ the lieutenant protested. ‘Unless Fourmies was double-crossing them and came without their knowledge, they’ve proved they’re willing to have her brother killed to prevent him from talking out of turn. And just having it proved that some guns have been sent to Ireland from over here doesn’t strike me as being enough cause for another international committee to be set up. I should reckon that doing it’d cost plenty.’

‘It did,’ the Kid confirmed.

‘And even if one is set up,’ Ballinger went on, directing the words mainly at Belle. ‘It’s not certain that the U.S. of A. would lose out this time.’

‘I wouldn’t want to count on winning,’ the Rebel Spy warned. ‘The Tribunal found for the U.S.A. in Seventy-Two, but there’s been a noticable anti-American feeling growing in Europe of late.’

‘I’m afraid that’s true, old boy,’ the Kid confirmed, ‘And, while it’s not the British Government’s doing, I’ll admit there are some Members of Parliament who won’t hesitate to try and exploit it.’

‘From what you told me, Captain Reeder,’ Ballinger said, sounding almost casual ‘You’re a member of the British Secret Service - ?’

‘Well actually, old chap, I haven’t told you any such thing,’ the Kid corrected, guessing what was coming. ‘But, like your General Washington, I can’t tell a lie. I am.’

‘Then there’re some who might say it would be your duty to let them send the arms and make sure you could prove they’d come from over here,’ Ballinger went on, unknowingly expressing the doubts formerly felt by the Rebel Spy. ‘No offence to you personally, mind, but I’d say there are some in your Government who could see it that way. England might be just about the richest and most powerful country in the world,5 but fifteen and a half million - pounds, don’t you call them? - isn’t a sum of money to be lost without looking for a way to get it back.’

‘There are some might say that the way in which Phineas Branigan and his buckoes make collections for the support of the Irish Republicans shouldn’t be any of your concern, if it comes to that,’ the Kid countered.

‘I don’t give a damn what anybody thinks when folk are being hurt to - !’ Ballinger began heatedly, then the words trailed away as he realised he was giving an answer which might not apply only to his motives for being willing to intervene.

‘And that’s how I see it,’ the Kid declared. ‘As I told Belle earlier, I’m more concerned with the people on both sides who will suffer than the possibility of Britain making money, or political capital, out of such a situation.’

‘You didn’t say that in so many words,’ the Rebel Spy objected. ‘But I knew it was what you meant.’

‘Like I said, no offence,’ the detective continued, satisfied by the confirmation of his belief that the Englishman had spoken with genuine sincerity. Holding out his right hand in evidence of his good will, he went on, ‘Is it all right if I drop the “Captain”?’

‘Well actually one is only supposed to reach first name terms after an acquaintance of no less than twenty-eight years, seven months, three weeks and five days, give or take a minute or two, Ed,’ the Kid replied, returning to his laconic speech and exchanging a strong hand-shake with Ballinger. ‘But, at the risk of making the foundations of the Empire shudder, I suppose we could make an exception. Try either “Pat”, or “Rem”.’

‘“Rem”?’ Ballinger repeated, wondering how the word supplied a sobriquet.

‘It’s short for the Remittance Kid,’ Belle explained, delighted by the way in which the conversation was progressing. She was aware that the affair was far from over and appreciated how advantageous it would be if she could obtain the whole-hearted support of both men, with them working on amicable terms. ‘That means his family pay him to stay as far away as possible from them. And, as he will insist on wearing that horrible false nose, I can’t say I blame them.’

‘Anyway, Ed, as you pointed out, this whole affair may cut far deeper than appears on the surface,’ the Kid remarked, so blandly that he might not have heard the Rebel Spy’s comment. Although his voice retained its lazy drawl, there was now a deadly serious undertone which was apparent to both members of his small audience. ‘I don’t know if General Handiman and your people have noticed it, Belle, but over the past few years we’ve become increasingly aware of a pattern behind the strife and civic disturbances that have been formented all over Europe, Asia and even down in Australia. Costly industrial disputes, international incidents which could have and, in some cases, even did result in open war have happened. Behind the majority of them has been a strong suggestion of an anarchist influence.’

‘It’s been commented upon,’ the girl admitted. ‘In fact, there’s a strong rumour of a plot to assassinate Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia while he’s down in Texas on a hunting trip.’

‘I hope your people are taking the threat seriously,’ the Kid stated.

‘They are,’ Belle replied. ‘In fact, if it hadn’t been for this business, I would have been going back down there. As it is, the General has made other arrangements for the Crown Prince’s protection.’8

‘He’ll most likely ask Captain Fog to look after things,’ Ballinger suggested prophetically, although he considered they were straying from the subject in which he was most interested. ‘There aren’t enough anarchists around to make all that much trouble.’

‘They aren’t in sufficient numbers to overthrow the government or rulers of even a small country by force as yet, I’ll grant you, Ed,’ Belle conceded. ‘But they’re waging a continuous campaign against different nations’ finances, economy and, as far as possible, established traditions and way of life. It’s calculated to weaken the structure of each’s society until there is a collapse which will enable them to take over the reins of government.’

‘That’s the reason behind the kind of entertainment and literature their kind put out,’ the Kid elaborated. ‘Thank the Lord that so far they haven’t the means to inflict it upon more than a small proportion of the population at one time. If they ever get something which will let them reach the majority, democratic freedom will be in deadly peril because they’ll exploit it every way they can. They won’t rest until their kind dominate the whole of the world. And they won’t care how many innocent people they cause to be killed, or how much misery, suffering and ruin they create while they’re trying to bring it about.’

‘That’s true,’ Belle seconded, seeing that the lieutenant was as impressed as she had been by the vehemence with which the Englishman had spoken. ‘Now what we have to decide is how to deal with their latest business.’

‘Are you sure there are anarchists involved, Colonel?’ Ballinger asked, knowing the local politicians who were supporting ‘Father Devlin’ had no such inclinations.

‘All the performers in the show are anarchists,’ the Rebel Spy pointed out. ‘And, if the English can relax formalities, I don’t see why we Americans have to keep using one another’s ranks, Ed.’

‘Anything the Limey can do, we can do better, Belle,’ Ballinger concurred with a grin. Then it faded and he went on, ‘You’re not saying Father Devlin’s one, are you?’

‘If he is, we’ve never heard about it and it’s likely we would have,’ the girl replied. ‘As they considered that religion is used by governments to help control the lower classes, anarchists generally profess to be atheists or agnostics. So a priest who became one would almost certainly be talked about.’

‘Whether he is, or he’s not, he’s hand in glove with them,’ Ballinger declared. ‘That showed in the way he kept backing Miss Gorr-Kauphin up in trying to mislead me at the theatre. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s an anarchist himself. He might be so dedicated to seeing the British run out of Ireland that he’d be willing to go to any lengths, even lying to the police, to help anybody who’s trying to do it.’

‘That could be so, old chap,’ the Kid admitted. ‘Although, speaking from my personal experiences, I’ve found that your local Irish supporters of independence for Ireland tend to be somewhat insular in their outlook and look askance upon everyone who isn’t Irish becoming involved in their affairs. The reaction of the audience tonight when I pointed out that dear Vera was British and of the class she was reviling was a good example of that.”

‘I wondered what you were doing in the theatre,’ Ballinger said. ‘Anyway, I’m not gainsaying what you said. The men behind Branigan and his buckoes wouldn’t take kindly to the notion of having a bunch of foreigners taking the credit for fund raising, but they’d do it if a priest suggested they should.’

‘From what I’ve seen of him and been told,’ Belle put in, ‘Father Devlin isn’t the kind to be fooled by anybody. So, whatever else his motives might be, he wasn’t just being used by Vera Gorr-Kauphin.’

‘I got the feeling they were close,’ Ballinger remarked pensively. ‘Not friendly, but at least working together. The thing is, did they know Fourmies was coming to kill her brother?’

‘He’d never dare do it without their approval,’ Belle stated. ‘And, even with it, I’m surprised he had the courage to do it.’

‘Maybe he’s done it without them knowing, though,’ the lieutenant objected. ‘It could be him and that Tinville feller they were so eager to have blamed, but didn’t want me to find are in cahoots and planning to double-cross them. Even if they’re not and he was sent by the Father and Miss Gorr-Kauphin, how do we prove it? We can’t even prove the feller we shot upstairs is Fourmies. I don’t suppose anybody, except the Gorr-Kauphins and Tinville maybe, has seen him with his hair cut short and beard shaved off. At least, nobody we can lay our hands on in a hurry.’

‘The most obvious solution would be to go and confront dear Vera and the good Father with a demand to be told why they tried to pull the wool over your official eyes, old chap,’ the Kid commented. ‘But I can appreciate how doing it might be somewhat impolitic under the circumstances.’

‘That’s one name for it,’ Ballinger answered dryly. ‘In this part of town particularly you don’t even suggest that a priest might be doing something underhand unless you’ve got certain proof of it. And I haven’t. All they’d need to do is say that Fourmies was called out of town suddenly, so he couldn’t have killed young Gorr-Kauphin and that whoever did is a stranger to them. Having those two jaspers with him, who sure as hell aren’t city boys and don’t even look to be all white would help them make it stick.’

‘Father Devlin hasn’t been here for long, has he?’ Belle put in.

‘About eight days,’ Ballinger replied. ‘He was brought down from Green Bay, Wisconsin, when old Father O’Keefe retired.’

‘Did anybody here know him before he came?’ the girl went on.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ballinger confessed. ‘Are you saying he might be an impostor?’

‘If he is, it would answer a lot of questions,’ Belle replied.

‘He’d have to know all the right things to get away with it,’ the detective objected, but he agreed with the Rebel Spy’s comment.

‘You could always try sending for information about him to Green Bay,’ the Kid suggested and raised a hand in a placatory gesture as Ballinger was about to speak. ‘I know, old sport, you’ve already decided to do that. But getting the answer is going to take time and I’m willing to bet that, when the man who escaped tells them what’s happened here, they’ll be leaving Chicago before you receive it.’

‘You mean they’ll give up whatever it is they have in mind?’ the detective asked.

‘I wouldn’t want to count on that,’ Belle replied, before the Kid could make a similar response. ‘Neither Vera Gorr-Kauphin nor “Father Devlin” are the kind to give up anything they set their mind to that easily. So what we’d better decide is how do we deal with them?’

‘And how to find out what the scheme is in case they escape,’ the Englishman supplemented. ‘The fact that those two chappies we had to kill in the entrance hall might be French Canadians, or Metis, suggests that there’s something more involved than just collecting money to send arms to Ireland.’

‘Tinville might know the answer,’ Belle suggested. ‘Why don’t we go and ask him?’

‘I’d be the first to say “yes” to that,’ Ballinger replied. ‘But finding him’s the problem. He wasn’t at the County Clare Hotel when we got there and, unless he’s come back and Sergeant Damon’s put the arm on him, he’s got the whole city to hide in.’

‘There’s just one chance, though,’ Belle stated and quickly described her association with the missing actor, concluding, ‘The money I gave him was only the advance payment and he’s got the same amount after we’ve pulled off the robbery in exchange for telling us where Vera Gorr-Kauphin keeps her jewellery hidden while she’s at the theatre.’

‘I’ve got much the same arrangement, dear girl,’ the Kid declared. ‘We’re to meet tomorrow morning and he’ll let me into the secret.’

‘He must think my “gennelman friend” and I are better prospects than you,’ Belle said with a smile, stroking the handle of her re-assembled parasol. ‘We’re to meet him at midnight tonight.’

‘All right then,’ Ballinger said, rising from the desk and donning his hat. Tell me where you’re meeting him and I’ll do my best to get you there on time.’

1 The first occasion is described in: THE COLT AND THE SABRE. J.T.E,

2 ‘Metis’ and ‘metissage’ are pronounced, ‘Matefs’ and ‘matesazh’, J.T.E.

3 Miscegenation: marriage, or interbreeding, between members of differed races. J.T.E.

4 In 1872, an international committee sitting in judgement on what had become known as the ‘Alabama’ Arbitration Tribunal, over protests levelled by the United States of America at Great Britain’s conduct during the War of Secession, hail ruled in favour of the complainants. For allowing Confederate States’ naval vessels such as the cruisers Alabama, Florida and Shenandoah to not only be built in, but to operate out of its ports - and being involved in blockade running and other activities equally detrimental to the Union’s cause - the Government of Great Britain had been ordered to pay restitution to the sum of £15,500,000. J.T.E.

5 This was true at the period of the events recorded in the present volume. J.T.E.

6 What the arrangements entailed is told in: BEGUINAGE and BEGUINAGE IS DEAD! J.T.E.

CHAPTER TEN

I KNOW HOW THEY WERE DAMAGED

‘What is this?’ Ernst Kramer growled indignantly, glaring at the discoloured and partially melted coins which he had poured from the second of the canvas bags on to the table in front of him. Raising his eyes, he scowled at his visitors and the Germanic timbre of his harsh voice became even more pronounced as he went on, ‘You’re not expecting me to accept these, are you?’

‘What’s wrong with them?’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ demanded, with well simulated innocence, although he knew the answer. ‘They might be disfigured, but they’re still acceptable legal tender.’

‘And they’ll be noticed anywhere I pass them,’ Kramer countered. ‘I’m not accepting them!’

The time was just after half past eleven. Having arrived to keep an appointment of great importance, Vera Gorr-Kauphin and the bogus priest were finding themselves faced with the problem they had anticipated.

On receiving the message sent by the surviving member of the trio who had accompanied Raoul Fourmies to the Streeterville Municipal Hospital, the couple had held a council of war. They had been compelled to do so by the alarm Phineas Branigan had displayed over the news, particularly that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger was at the hospital. Having questioned the driver of the fringe-top Surrey, they had concluded that either the artist’s disguise had been penetrated or - considering the amount of time that had elapsed between him entering and the commencement of the shooting - that his purpose had become suspected. Taking into account the behaviour of his escort, they were inclined to assume it was the latter contingency. The comment about Fourmies having to take his chances had implied that the survivor was unable to see what had happened to him. If he had been arrested, or shot, the man would have mentioned it. The general concensus of opinion - including that of the actress, despite the victim being her brother - or rather the hope was that Fourmies had carried out his task successfully before being discovered, but had not been taken alive.

It had been apparent that Branigan and his men had no intention of waiting at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre until the survivor returned. Vera and ‘Devlin’ had agreed with him that there was an urgent need to depart. Not only had they much to do that evening, they realised that the theatre was the first place Ballinger would come to look for them if Fourmies, Gorr-Kauphin, or even Marcel Tinville - who still had not been located by Branigan’s men - had fallen into his hands.

Of the three, the actress and the impostor had been least concerned over the possibility of Tinville being apprehended by the police. While he knew something of their plans, he had not been present when the real Father Devlin was murdered. Nor had he taken part in the disposal of the body. Knowing the artist and Gorr-Kauphin, the couple felt sure that neither would have told him about the incident. They would have no wish for him to possess such incriminating knowledge, as it would give him a powerful hold over them. So Tinville would be unable to supply Ballinger with any details of the crime. Nothing else the couple had done left them open to such serious legal repercussions. They could deny all knowledge of the reason for the artist’s visit to the hospital. Nor would many people believe that a woman would authorise the murder of her own brother, much less that a priest would condone the act. On the other hand, if arrested, Fourmies might turn state evidence in the hope of saving himself from hanging. Or, should the attempted murder have been foiled, Gorr-Kauphin was just as likely to do the same out of a desire for revenge when he learned what had brought the artist to the hospital.

In spite of the possibility that they might be betrayed to a member of the Chicago Police Department who would not allow himself to be dissuaded from carrying out his duty by the danger of antagonising influential political and religious factions in the city, the couple had not considered abandoning their scheme and fleeing. As Belle Boyd had deduced, they were made of sterner stuff than their three associates and, while aware of the danger, had refused to be driven off before they were sure they had no other choice but to escape. They already possessed the necessities for flight, including having placed sufficient money and the documents required to leave the United States in a place known only to themselves.

Having arranged that any message from the survivor would be delivered to them, Vera and ‘Devlin’ had gone with Branigan to a hide-out which he swore was safe as the police were not aware of its existence. On arriving, they had made their preparation for what they had guessed would be an anything but easy interview. Vera had restricted herself to changing her cloak for a black Kerry coat and partially concealing her face with the hood. Discarding his priestly attire, the impostor had donned garments which conveyed the impression that he was a well-to-do businessman. Then they had taken the fringe-top Surrey and set off unescorted towards the high rent north eastern area of the city in which, without any of his neighbours suspecting how he actually earned his living, the man so essential to the continuation of their plans had his home.

Equalling ‘Devlin’ in height and considerably heavier, although much of the extra bulk was fat, Ernst Kramer was in his late fifties. He had on stylish clothes which did little to flatter his appearance, nor to distract from his corpulence. Close cropped, his iron grey hair emphasised the bullet shape of his head. His florid features and well fed look contributed to his nickname, ‘die Fliescher’ - the Butcher - as much as did his use of that trade as a means of concealing his actual line of business.

Nothing about Kramer gave the suggestion that he was a highly successful dealer in illicit firearms. Certainly none of his neighbours, including several who would have objected strongly and were sufficiently influential to make their disapproval effective, were aware of how he earned his living. Yet such had been his occupation for many years. Regardless of who wanted the death-dealing merchandise, or for what purpose, he could supply it. Nor did he restrict himself to rifles, revolvers, and ammunition of all kinds and in larger quantities than any of his competitors could offer. If the price was right, he would also procure pieces of artillery and even more sophisticated weapons although his means of obtaining the latter were very rarely legal.

Being a cautious man, a not unnatural state of mind for one in his line of business, Kramer had little faith in the honesty or reliability of his customers. Although circumstances had compelled him to interview the couple at his home instead of some more desirable rendezvous, he clearly was not taking any chances. In spite of them having arrived with excellent references and notwithstanding that one was a woman, he had taken precautions against treachery. A Colt ‘Storekeeper Model’ Pacemaker revolver^1 lay cocked on the table close to his right hand. In addition, there were two exceptionally husky, well dressed, blond haired young men of Teutonic appearance, each with a revolver displayed openly in his waistband, standing in opposite corners of the large and comfortably furnished library of his palatial home.

‘I haven’t tried to cheat you,’ ‘Devlin’ protested. ‘I kept the coins separate from the rest instead of mixing them and hoping they wouldn’t be noticed.’

‘That was real kind of you,’ Kramer answered sardonically, knowing there were too many damaged coins to have passed unnoticed. ‘Is the full amount we arranged here?’

‘No,’ ‘Devlin’ admitted. ‘There’s some missing, but I brought this as a sign of good faith -’

“You know my terms,’ Kramer interrupted. ‘Cash on the barrel head is the only way I do business, as I told you from the beginning. I’ve got to admire your gall, though, coming here without the full purchase price and half of that in damaged coins.’

‘I brought them as a deposit,’ the impostor growled, knowing the deal must be concluded before he left or there would be complications which could ruin the scheme he and the actress were engaged upon. ‘I can get the balance -’

‘Damaged coins are of no use to me,’ Kramer persisted. ‘So-’

‘We’re willing to pay you a bonus if you accept them,’ Vera offered, so annoyed by ‘Devlin’s’ continued use of the word I rather than ‘we’ that she spoke before the arms salesman could suggest a similar arrangement.

‘How much of a bonus?’ Kramer inquired, delighted at having the proposal come from one of his customers instead of having made it himself.

‘That depends,’ the impostor put in and, not for the first time that evening, silently cursing the actress for interfering. He had what he felt sure was the means of ensuring Kramer’s co-operation on the matter of payment without offering the inducement of a bonus, but was just as sure that something extra would have to be handed over now the offer had been made. ‘We might ask you to get us something else.’

‘Such as?’ the arms salesman asked.

‘An Agar Coffee-Mill gun,’ ‘Devlin’ replied, ignoring Vera as she looked at him in amazement and opened her mouth.

‘An Agar Coffee-Mill gun?’ Kramer repeated, frowning in puzzlement. ‘Hell, I haven’t seen one of them in -’

‘There’s no statute of limitations for murder!’ the impostor interrupted, sotto voce, but with grim intensity. He saw a suggestion of alarm creep across the other man’s florid features as he continued, ‘And I doubt whether certain members of the 18th Ohio Volunteers will have forgotten -’

‘How do you know about that?’ Kramer asked in normal tones.

During the War Between The States, one of die Fliescher’s commissions had come from a group of liberal intellectuals serving in the Union Army. They had required rifles and an Agar Coffee-Mill gun^2 for a scheme they were hatching. Two sentries of the 18th Ohio Volunteers, the members of which had contributed to purchase such a weapon, had been killed as a preliminary to stealing it. Although the scheme had failed and all the consignment was destroyed,3 his part in the affair had never been mentioned. However, he knew that he could still be arrested and tried for the crime.

‘I know and that’s sufficient,’ ‘Devlin’ answered, having no intention of mentioning he was one of the conspirators as to do so would weaken his position.

‘It’s also dangerous knowledge for an unarmed man to have,’ Kramer warned, his right hand moving closer to the butt of the revolver.

‘I’d put that idea out of your head straight away if I was you,’ the impostor stated, showing no alarm, although he had been searched on his arrival and had been compelled to leave the revolver he was carrying in the fringe-top Surrey. However, he did not underestimate the danger. That Kramer had not offered to hold his voice down implied he could trust the two men in the corners of the room. ‘Killing me won’t do you any good. I’ve left a signed deposition outlining the whole affair and, if anything happens to me, it will be forwarded to the Ohio State Legislature. The Governor was the Volunteers’ colonel and it was at his suggestion they all chipped in to buy the -’

‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ Kramer growled and, although he moved his hand away from the Colt, he continued - so as to show he had not made an unconditional surrender - ‘The lady said something about a bonus.’

‘I didn’t!’ ‘Devlin’ snapped.

‘Look at it from my point of view, Mr Caldicott,’ Kramer requested, the brief worried expression having been replaced by a look of cold calculation as he laid great emphasis on the name he had been given by the impostor. ‘I’ll have to send all the damaged coins out of the country to dispose of them and, even then, I’ll have to let them go at a discount. So I don’t see why I should stand the loss.’

‘Why should you need to send them out of the country?’ ‘Devlin’ queried, realising that the arms salesman was less perturbed than he had anticipated.

‘Because I know how they were damaged,’ Kramer replied. ‘And who is investigating the fire at O’Malley’s.’

‘You know - ?’ Vera gasped, showing less control over her emotions than the bogus priest who stiffened slightly but said nothing.

‘I know, Mrs Caldicott,’ Kramer confirmed, once again speaking in a way which indicated he was aware the name was an alias, but his gaze remained on ‘Devlin’. ‘We’ve been keeping a - fatherly - eye on you and your - husband - ever since you contacted me and that includes tonight. There are those in Chicago who might consider a married couple with your religious convictions shouldn’t be doing anything so unchristian as buying guns which will be used to kill people, even if they will be people who aren’t of your faith.’

‘What I know about would make things far worse for you than anything you might know can make them for me,’ the impostor answered, but he appreciated the implications of the latest development and tried to sound more confident than he was feeling. ‘I’ve nothing to fear from the people I’m working with.’

‘Nor from Lieutenant Ballinger?’ Kramer challenged. ‘I’ve heard he’s not the kind to be scared off an investigation because, if he keeps going, he might hurt somebody’s political - or religious - feelings.’

There, ‘Devlin’ told himself bitterly, die Fliescher had touched the pivotal point of their negotiations. Kramer was in a position to create serious difficulties for him almost immediately. On the other hand, at present he could not betray Kramer without ruining the scheme for which he had worked so long. Even if he should do so anonymously, he did not doubt that Kramer would expose his adopted identity and present Ballinger with an excellent reason for investigating him.

‘I can see your point about sending the money out of the country,’ the imposter conceded, hoping the other man had not thought of one aspect of the affair. ‘How much of a bonus do you want?’

‘Three thousand dollars,’ Kramer suggested.

‘Three thousand - ?’ Vera yelped, having failed to comprehend that her companion no longer controlled the situation as completely as his earlier comments had implied and annoyed by his behaviour.

‘One thousand!’ ‘Devlin’ countered, silencing the actress with a glare of concentrated fury.

‘Fifteen hundred,’ Kramer replied, in tones of finality. ‘That’s my last offer. To be delivered with the balance of the payment by this time tomorrow.’

‘I can’t get it by then,’ the impostor protested. Although he and Vera each had a sum sufficient to complete the deal in their possession, extracted from the donations they had gathered, he did not intend using his own money unless there was no other choice and he felt sure she would be equally disinclined to make the sacrifice. However, he was confident that he could persuade his local backers to make good the deficit. ‘But I’ll have it for you in two days.’

‘Two days it is then,’ Kramer assented.

‘How soon can we take possession of the weapons?’ Vera demanded, indignant that neither man had sought her opinion and approval before reaching the agreement.

‘You can have the order for the city on the day after I’ve been paid in full,’ the arms salesman promised. ‘But it’ll take two weeks for everything to be ready up at Stokeley.’

‘And, of course, under the circumstances,’ Vera said, her annoyance causing her to be indiscreet, ‘we know that we’ll find everything -’

‘Everything will be satisfactory!’ ‘Devlin’ put in quickly, scowling at the actress. He had no wish for die Fliescher to learn they were going to Stokeley instead of remaining in Chicago. Such knowledge would reveal the weak spot which Kramer had overlooked in their respective positions. While he could not betray the other as long as he needed to remain in the city, there was nothing to stop him once he left and ceased to be ‘Father Matthew Devlin’.

‘Mr Kramer’s never failed to make a delivery yet. That’s why we came to him. If you’d like to count the money and give us a receipt, sir, we’ll be on our way.’

If the Rebel Spy had been able to overhear the conversation, she would have discovered she was correct in her assumption that there would be reluctance on the part of the arms salesman to accept the damaged money. However, the impostor had contrived to overcome the obstacle and would soon have the means to put his scheme into operation.

Despite the Chicago River^4 having been explored in 1673 by Louis Joillet and Jacques Marquette, and then becoming an important portage route for voyageurs on passage to the lower Illinois country, the French had not made any attempts to settle in the area. Nor, when the city of Chicago had begun to grow, did they take up residence in numbers which came anywhere near to equalling those of the Irish, German, Italian or Mid-European populations. However, there was a small enclave of them on the fringes of the Irish district of Streeterville in which O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle was situated.

It was to ‘Frog Town’, as the French quarter was inelegantly referred to by its neighbours of non-Gallic origin that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger was escorting Belle Boyd and Captain Patrick Reeder. They were approaching their destination at about the time that Vera Gorr-Kauphin and the bogus priest were leaving Ernst Kramer’s residence.

As Ballinger had put the buggy he and his subordinates were using at Sergeant Damon’s disposal, he and his companions were on foot. Although they had decided upon their strategy while walking, none of them realised that they had been kept under surveillance ever since leaving the hospital. The lieutenant had heard about the fringe-top Surrey leaving hurriedly, but nobody had noticed the surviving member of the trio lurking in the alley from which it emerged. So the possibility that they might be followed had not occurred to any of them. Even if they had envisaged the contingency, the man might have evaded their experienced attempts to catch him.

Born of a French father and an Assiniboin Indian mother, Arnaud Cavallier was - as the Remittance Kid had suggested - a Metis. He had acquired the sobriquet, le Loup-Garou, ‘the Werewolf’, by virtue of his skill as a woodsman and his ruthless nature. What was more, he had received a university education which had done nothing to dispel the training he had been given in such matters as silent moving and stalking. Considerable experience at both made him equally capable of exploiting his talents on the streets of a city as in the backwoods of his homeland.

Close to six foot in height, le Loup-Garou - as he preferred to be called - had light brown, almost yellowish, hair and deeply tanned, handsome aquiline features which were indicative of his Indian blood. He looked somewhat younger than his actual age of thirty-five. Unlike the companions he had deserted, he was bare-headed and kept his hair cut short. After leaving them, he had buttoned up his vest and, apart from the moccasins on his feet, there was nothing to set him apart from the other members of the crowd attracted by the shooting. He would not have worn the moccasins, but he always put them on when in the company of his fellow Metis as a sign that - for all his rise from humble beginnings - he was one of them at heart.

The arrival of Cavallier and his two companions at the theatre had been a mixed blessing for ‘Father Devlin’. As they had brought their contribution to the purchase price of the arms and ammunition, he would have preferred that they remained in ignorance of the evening’s events in case it should have an adverse effect upon his future dealings with them. On the other hand, although Cavallier had refused to consider the suggestion that they killed Colin Gorr-Kauphin, they had offered a means of ensuring Raoul Fourmies carried out the task.

When the affair had gone wrong, le Loup-Garou had not felt the slightest compunction over deserting his companions. He had realised that he could do little to help them and considered his own life was too important to be squandered. So he had retreated and, when he had decided he could do so without attracting attention to himself, had joined the crowd outside the hospital to see what he could find out.

When Ballinger had emerged in the company of the man and woman who had rushed out of the office with him, Cavallier had concluded that it might be worthwhile to learn more about them. He had heard enough from members of the hospital staff to know that Fourmies and Gorr-Kauphin were dead, but there was no mention of the couple’s participation. Instead, it appeared that the lieutenant was claiming credit for killing the artist and the two Metis for himself and the detective sergeant who had also lost his life.

Knowing who and what Ballinger was, le Loup-Garou was no longer sure of the Kid’s status. At first, he had thought the Englishman was merely another detective. The fact that his participation had been concealed suggested this could not be the case. There would have been no need to keep him out of it if that was his official capacity.

Puzzled as he was by the Kid, Cavallier had found Belle even more intriguing. Everything he had seen ruled out the possibility that she was no more than a member of the hospital’s staff, or a close acquaintance of one or other man and there by chance. So he wondered what her exact status might be. Being more concerned with her male companions, he had formed no more than a fleeting impression of her looks and build as she was running across the entrance hall to the stairs. He had not even noticed the dismantling of the parasol. Nor, as she had raised the hood of the Kerry coat, had he been able to see her face as she left the hospital and went by on the other side of the street.

Le Loup-Garou still had not reached any conclusions regarding Belle and the Kid by the time they were passing through the streets of ‘Frog Town’. Then the way in which they started to behave implied that they were near to their destination. Realising what it must be, he decided that his decision to follow them might produce positive and useful information.

1 For the benefit of new readers, the Colt ‘Storekeeper’ differed from the other models of the 1873 Model P ‘Peacemaker’ - details of which are given in various of the author’s works - by having a shorter barrel, 3”, 3.5”, or 4” in length and having no ejector rod fitted. J.T.E.

2 Agar ‘Coffee-Mill’ gun: an early and comparatively successful type of machine gun. Its name derived from the funnel-like magazine resembling the hopper of a coffee-mill into which the beans were fed for grinding. J.T.E.

3 How and why the scheme failed is told in; THE DEVIL GUN. J.T.E.

4 ‘Chicago’ is said to be a corruption of the Objibwa Indian words, ‘she-kag-ong’, meaning ‘wild onion place’. J.T.E.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’LL ONLY DEAL WITH HIM

With the time almost midnight, the streets of the French quarter were practically deserted; a factor which had done nothing to lessen Arnaud Cavallier’s difficulties in keeping Belle Boyd, Captain Patrick Reeder and Lieutenant Edward Ballinger under observation while they were walking from the Streeterville Municipal Hospital. However, one establishment in the business section was still open. At least, although its front door was closed, lights showed through the windows of the rendezvous nominated by Marcel Tinville for transacting further business with the Rebel Spy and her non-existent criminal accomplice.

Unaware of the unseen watcher’s interest in their doings, but inadvertently keeping her back to him and still denying him an opportunity to see her face, Belle removed and handed the Kerry coat to the Remittance Kid. As Tinville had already met the Englishman and might recognise Ballinger or be warned of his official status, they had consented - somewhat reluctantly on the latter’s part - to her entering the Bistro le Marseillaise unescorted. Although they would be ready to rush in if the need should arise, they could not wait too close in case any of the occupants were keeping watch on the street. So, as she might be compelled to defend herself prior to their arrival, she had no intention of being encumbered by the garment which had inadvertently served to conceal her features from le Loup-Garou. However, in the interests of self protection, she was retaining her harmless-looking parasol.

In spite of its name, the Bistro le Marseillaise was a medium-sized and moderately luxurious tavern very little different in outwards appearance from similar establishments owned by the same brewery in districts dominated by other racial groups. Internally, with the emphasis being on French wines and brandy as the main source of liquid refreshment - rather than beer, schnapps, chianti, whiskey or other appropriate ethnically orientated potables - there were further indications that the proprietor and the majority of his clientele had their origins in the country in honour of whose national anthem it was named.1

Studying the barroom through the window as she went by, Belle could see only two occupants. Seated at a table in the centre, facing the front door, Tinville was now clean shaven and had a worried, furtive look.

Behind the bar, the proprietor - Henri ‘Papa’ Ghamplain - was a typical stout, florid, blue-jowelled and heavily moustached Frenchman of the Midi.2 A black beret tilted at a rakish angle on his head of grey-streaked black hair and seemed frivolous when compared with the hard, unsmiling gravity of his features. Of full habit, he had on a tight-fitting blue and white striped shirt from the short sleeves of which emerged hairy and powerfully muscled arms. His appearance and bearing was that of the kind of savage martinet non-commissioned officer whose discipline brought terror to the enlisted men of the French Army. Whatever he had been in the past, Ballinger had told Belle he was now acknowledged as a leader of the French community in Chicago and was also among other criminal activities, suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods, drawing his business from those members of the underworld who were disinclined to deal with Phineas Branigan.

Not until the Rebel Spy had entered did she discover there were two more men present and she realised that her companions would have been detected if they had come any closer.

Standing on either side of the door, the pair were tall and burly. Despite being clad in a fashion which would not have distinguished them as members of any particular racial group, their faces had sufficient of a family resemblance to suggest that they were closely related to the proprietor.

They were, in fact, his sons, Andre and Claude.

Walking onwards, knowing she would almost certainly be prevented from leaving, Belle kept a watch on the brothers via the mirror behind the bar. After a glance out of the window through which she had looked in passing, Andre gave a nod and his younger brother stepped across to turn the key and lock the door. Showing not the slightest sign of being aware of what was happening behind her, she approached the man she had come to see. She was, however, relieved to notice that Andre was no longer keeping the street under observation. Instead, he and Claude were starting to follow her in a slow, yet significantly silent and cautious fashion.

In addition to keeping the brothers under observation, the Rebel Spy studied Tinville. There was an air of tension about him and, as she approached, he threw a worried glance at Papa Champlain to receive what was clearly a threatening scowl in reply. Making no attempt to rise as she came to a halt at the opposite side of the table, the actor’s attitude was suggestive of a readiness to take flight at a moment’s notice rather than that he was hoping to receive a promised sum of money for supplying bogus information to her.

‘Hello, Mr Lebrun,’ Belle greeted, using the name by which Tinville had introduced himself. Still nothing in her demeanour, not even the casual seeming way in which her left hand went to the waistband of the skirt, hinted that she was maintaining her surveillance of the Champlain brothers as they came to a halt a few feet to the rear and on either side of her. Employing the poorly educated Southron’s accent, she continued, ‘My “gennelman” friend surely thanks you-all for what you told us. He had a lil mite of trouble, but nothing that amounted to nothing. And the money was right where you-all said ‘n’ he got clean away with it.’

‘Hasn’t he come with you?’ the actor inquired, while Papa Champlain darted an interrogative glance at Andre and received a shake of the head to indicate a negative answer to the unspoken question.

‘Land’s sakes, no!’ Belle replied, watching the exchange between father and son. She was relieved by the evidence that her companions’ presence in the vicinity remained unsuspected. ‘He just sent me along with the money and said for you-all to tell me where that fancy English acting woman’s got all her jewellery hid.’

‘That’s not good enough!’ Tinville objected, as he had been instructed, concluding from the direct way in which his visitor was speaking that she knew of Papa Champlain’s illicit activities. Although he wondered whether the as yet unseen ‘gennelman friend’ really existed, as the girl had been alone when he had opened the back door of O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre in answer to the signal knock they had decided upon, he continued sounding more frightened than determined, ‘I’ll only deal with him.’

‘Why I declare my loving man wouldn’t like that one lil bit at all!’ Belle warned, standing as tense as the compressed coil spring of her parasol’s billy for all her apparent relaxation. ‘He’s kind of shy and retiring when it comes to “sociable-ising” with strangers, like I’ve already told you-all.’

‘That’s the only way I’ll do any more business with him!’ Tinville stated, after throwing another worried look at the grim-faced man behind the counter and being given another nod of command. ‘So you’re going to take us to him.’

‘Us?’ Belle repeated, sounding more puzzled than was the case. Then, as if realising the import of the word, she went on with a mixture of well simulated alarm and indignation. ‘You-all surely don’t mean you want lil ole me to take you and somebody else to meet him?’

‘That’s just what he means, mademoiselle,’ Papa Champlain confirmed huskily, his English heavily accented in the French fashion. ‘My two fine sons will accompany you.’

‘Why sir, there’s only one thing I can say to that’ Belle answered mildly. Giving a sharp tug at the strap of her waistband so that it opened and allowed the top of the skirt to expand, she raised her voice to yell, ‘HELP!’

Having been told by their father how they should act, their talents laying more on brawn than creative thinking, Andre and Claude Champlain had kept a short distance away from the young woman so as to avoid arousing her suspicions. Realising that the need for caution was ended now Papa had delivered his pronouncement, they began to converge upon her. It was their intention to grab her by the arms and prevent her from raising an alarm that might frighten away her ‘boy friend’ if he was near by. Just as they were moving forward, they heard her yell and saw the skirt starting to slide down.

The latter rather than the shout caused the brothers to pause!

From his final scrutiny of the street, Andre felt sure there was nobody close enough to hear and come in answer to the appeal for assistance. Claude had not given the matter any thought. So they both acted in the same way. Being healthy young men with a full measure of the traditional Gallic interest in members of the opposite sex, their eyes followed the descent of the girl’s skirt with eager anticipation. They found themselves disappointed by the view. Each was expecting that some form of feminine underclothing would be revealed, the briefer the better, but saw only masculine - if most attractively filled, black riding breeches and Hessian boots.

Having taken the requisite action to rid herself of hindrance from the skirt, the Rebel Spy’s left hand flashed to the body of the parasol. A twist separated it from the handle and left the way clear for the spring-loaded billy to be brought into use, but she did not toss it aside as she had in the hospital’s entrance hall. Instead, rotating swiftly at the hips, she swung it in an upwards arc.

Belle had not neglected to continue watching the brothers and, seeing that Andre was recovering his wits faster than Claude, made him the first object of her attentions. Rising with all the wiry strength of her slenderly muscled body behind it, the point of the steel ferrule jabbed him hard - beneath his chin. Letting out a pained and startled squawk, he went into an involuntary retreat.

‘What’s happening - ?’ Claude gasped in French, jerking his gaze from the tight seat of the riding breeches in time to see his elder brother staggering away from their intended victim.

The question went uncompleted!

Reversing her torso’s direction with an equal rapidity and turning her right hand palm upwards, Belle delivered just as painfully effective a thrust with the steel knob of the billy to the same target as she had selected on Andre. Caught unawares and unprepared, Claude discovered what had caused his brother’s reaction. Croaking instead of continuing speaking, he backed away just as hurriedly.

While dealing with the brothers, the Rebel Spy was not unaware that there might be other threats to her well being. She saw that, registering an even greater alarm and consternation, Tinville was thrusting back his chair as he started to rise. However, she considered he would be the least of her problems. Not only was Papa Champlain showing anger mingled with amazement over the way in which the situation was developing, he was grabbing for something beneath the counter. It required little deductive genius to decide that the concealed object was a firearm of some kind. Nor did Belle need to exert any excessive amount of thought to realise just how grave a peril she was facing.

Wanting only to escape, Tinville was no threat!

Nor, although neither was as yet incapacitated, were the two brothers too serious a danger while she held the spring-loaded billy ready for instant use for she would no longer need to restrict herself to merely jabbing. She was confident in her speed and agility being sufficient to keep her out of either’s reach until she could bring the device into the kind of use for which it was designed.

Being too far away for Belle to reach him before he was able to raise whatever kind of weapon he was picking up, it was Papa Champlain who would put her in jeopardy.

Even as she was reaching the unpalatable conclusion with regard to the proprietor, Belle was bringing up her right leg. Hooking the toe of the Hessian boot under the table, she lifted and shoved. Sliding from its top as it tilted, Tinville’s bottle of wine and glass preceded it in tumbling on to his lap. He gave a frightened wail as, trying to avoid all three, he overturned his chair and sprawled backwards on to the floor.

Satisfied with her effort as far as the actor was concerned, the Rebel Spy still had no idea how she might cope with Papa Champlain.

Having crossed to approach the Bistro le Marseillaise from the opposite side of the street and reduce the chances of being seen, even though they were relying upon Belle to keep the occupants’ attention away from the windows, the Kid and Ballinger were halfway back when they heard her shout for help. They had already drawn their Webley revolvers and darted forward without worrying any longer about remaining undetected. The detective did not know that the door was locked, but he still swung his left shoulder forward and charged it open. Experience had taught him the value of making a noisy and dramatic entrance. Such shock tactics were likely to distract the people upon whom he was literally bursting in and he took the precaution instinctively.

‘Don’t!’ the Kid roared, springing across the threshold on Ballinger’s heels and coming to a halt with his Webley R.I.C. revolver held in the shoulder level, double handed grip which allowed for accurate sighting. ‘You’re a dead man if you do!’

To be fair to Papa Champlain, he was only lifting the sawed-off shotgun from the shelf under the counter with the intention of threatening the very competent young woman into compliance. He would have been reluctant to use it, if only because to kill her would ruin any chance of obtaining the money he believed to have been stolen from the theatre.

For a moment, staring into the rock steady muzzle of the revolver aimed at him, Champlain thought that his female visitor’s partner had arrived. Then he recognised Ballinger and knew this could not be the case. There were dishonest officers in the Chicago Police Department, but the detective lieutenant had never been in their number and would not be helping a criminal. So the proprietor drew a parallel conclusion to that reached, then discarded, by le Loup-Garou outside the Streeterville Municipal Hospital. He assumed that the man who was covering him must be another police officer and appeared to be as competent as Ballinger in the use of firearms.

‘Don’t shoot,’ Champlain yelled, dropping the shotgun and raising his empty hands hurriedly.

Even without the evidence that his father was surrendering, Andre had no inclination to do otherwise. With Ed Ballinger pointing a revolver at him, he knew resistance would be futile and could prove fatal.

Claude reached a different conclusion. Finding that he was not directly subjected to either of the newcomers’ attentions, he saw what he believed was a way in which the affair could be brought back in his family’s favour. He would grab the girl and use her as a hostage. There were flaws in his reasoning, if he had only given the matter more thought. He did not bother to consider why police officers would be greatly concerned over what happened to a female criminal, or what he, his father and brother would do after they regained control of the situation. Instead, he made a lunge forward and very soon wished he had not.

Seeing the younger Ghamplain brother approaching, Belle deduced his motives. What was more, she appreciated that he could put her companions in an embarrassing position if he succeeded. So she continued to move with the speed which had allowed her to protect herself from the beginning.

As the Rebel Spy’s right arm swung, the billy opened and its spring came into operation. The steel ball caught the back of Claude’s outstretched left hand and elicited a howl of agony as the bones splintered. While striking, Belle had stepped aside and, as he went by, she spun on her right foot to deliver a kick with her left leg to his rump. Fast taken though it might have been, the impact sent him reeling onwards. Clutching his injured hand with the other, he fell across a table. The legs buckled and collapsed under his weight, dumping him almost fainting from the pain, on the floor. It was a sight which would have gladdened the heart of more than one prostitute in his father’s employment if she had seen it. Claude was noted for his rough handling of such unfortunates.

‘You’ve come just in time, Lieutenant Ballinger,’ Papa Champlain stated, not entirely dissatisfied with the way his younger son’s ill-advised actions had turned out. He waved a hand towards the Rebel Spy and the recumbent Tinville, elaborating, ‘I was just going to send for the police. These two are responsible for the fire and robbery at O’Malley’s theatre.’

‘Now wasn’t that thoughtful of you, Papa,’ Ballinger answered, with only the faintest trace of sarcasm in his voice. ‘If there was more like you around, I swear Chicago would become so law-abiding and honest fellers like me would have to go somewhere else to find work. Hadn’t you better go and find out how bad Brother Claude’s hurt, Andre? Damned if it doesn’t look like he’s come across one girl he can’t lick.’

Watching the detective and the Remittance Kid advancing without holstering their revolvers, although he was still unaware of the latter’s identity and true status, Henri Champlain scowled malevolently at the former’s sardonic comment. He knew that Ballinger was aware of the various illegal enterprises which had their origin in the Bistro le Marseillaise, despite there never having been sufficient evidence for an arrest. What was more, he sensed that his former immunity was now in jeopardy. A wily judge of strategy, he was a believer in attack offering the best means of defence. So he had got his version of what was happening in first. His story might not be believed, but it would at least warn his sons of the line he wanted them to take.

‘Lebrun there came in earlier and asked if he could wait and meet somebody,’ Papa continued, remaining behind the counter and pointing at Tinville. ‘Something in his manner made me suspicious that he might not be up to anything good. So, being the law-abiding citizen I am, I had my fine sons help me persuade him to tell us the truth. Then I thought that I would help the police still further, as they would probably all be busy with the fire at the theatre. So we would catch both the woman and her accomplice when they came to meet him.’

‘Hoots, mon!’ the Kid ejaculated, adopting a Scottish Highlander’s accent and sounding genuinely impressed. ‘Wasn’t that public-spirited of you?’

‘Wasn’t it,’ Ballinger conceded, with equally spurious sincerity, noting the change in the Englishman’s voice and deciding it sounded as authentic as the Irish brogue which had been there on their first meeting. Having no doubts over why the proprietor had supplied the information, he felt sure that it was partially true. His gaze swung to the young actor, who had rolled the table aside but was still sitting on the floor. ‘Get up, Mr Lebrun - or is it Marcel Tinville? - You and the young lady are coming with us.’

‘You don’t sound like a policeman, m’sieur,’ Papa Champlain remarked, looking from where Andre was helping Claude to rise, to the Kid. Certain other factors were beginning to come to his attention, leading him to wonder whether his position was as precarious as he had at first imagined. ‘In fact, you don’t even sound like an American.’

‘That could be because I’m not an American,’ the Englishman replied, still sounding as if he had been born far to the north of Hadrian’s Wall.3 He had adopted the Scottish accent in the hope of preventing Tinville from connecting him with the character he had played on their earlier meetings. However, remembering that the two men killed in the entrance hall of the hospital might have been French-Canadians, or Metis, he continued in the hope of producing an informative response. ‘But I am a policeman. Inspector Macdonald of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police, at your service.’

The incorrect introduction elicited the kind of comment it had been uttered to create, but it was made by Tinville. Alarmed over the unexpected turn of events and hurt as a result of being precipitated unexpectedly to the floor, he was still capable of thought. In spite of the scar having disappeared from the left cheek, the broken nose had led him to believe the speaker was the man to whom he had imparted much the same information as he had sold to the fiery haired young woman. Although the accent was now Scottish and not Irish, the man’s announcement of his name and rank could explain why he had been employing the latter.

‘The Canadian Northwest - !’ the actor began. ‘Then you know - ?’

Before Tinville could go any further, Claude Champlain let out a bellow of rage. Helped to his feet by his brother, his gaze had just reached the person who was responsible for the pain he was suffering. The sight of Belle detonated his far from stable temper into an eruption of fury. Hurling Andre aside, he sprang across the room with the intention of avenging the injury he had sustained at her hands.

Knowing the young man’s far from savoury reputation where women were concerned, although none of the victims of his brutal treatment had dared to lodge a formal complaint, Ballinger took a step forward and started to line the Webley Bulldog at him. Not so well informed about Claude, but equally apprehensive in spite of being even more aware than the lieutenant of how capably the Rebel Spy could defend herself, the Kid was just as able to refrain from diverting his attention and weapon ready to protect her.

Taking advantage of the diversion, Tinville turned and dashed towards the open front door.

Although none of the barroom’s occupants realised it, there was an interested observer watching and listening to what was happening!

1 The French national anthem, le Marseillaise, was, written in 1792 by Koget de Lisle. J.T.E.

2 ‘Midi’: the southern regions of France. J.T.E.

3 ‘Hadrian’s Walt’: a defensive structure extending from Solway Firth to the Tyne, built between 122-128 A.D. on the orders of Emperor Hadrian (76-138 A.D.) to protect Roman Britain from the Picts and the Scots. J.T.E.

CHAPTER TWELVE

YOU’D BETTER CO-OPERATE, M’SIEUR

Arnaud Cavallier, taking advantage of the woman’s escort being preoccupied with avoiding being seen by the occupants of the Bistro le Marseillaise, had closed the distance separating him from them. Being aware of how Henri ‘Papa’ Champlain received the major portion of his income, le Loup-Garou did not doubt that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger was equally well informed even though unable to obtain sufficient proof to secure a conviction. So he had been puzzled when it had become obvious that the two men intended to let the woman go in alone. Listening to the disturbance which had caused them to follow her so hurriedly, he had decided it might be possible for him to eavesdrop without too great a risk of being discovered.

Moving as silently as the wearing of a pair of moccasins allowed, Cavallier had reached the window through which Belle Boyd had conducted her not entirely satisfactory examination of the barroom. His own scrutiny had been far more fruitful and, apart from one aspect, informative. What was more, as the door was still open, he was able to listen to the conversation taking place inside. Almost the first words he heard had warned him that the situation was grave. The rest had suggested there were facets which he had not envisaged and they added to the danger.

From what ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ had told le Loup-Garou before he and his two companions had set off with Raoul Fourmies on the ill-fated visit to the Streeterville Municipal Hospital, he found Ballinger’s use of Marcel Tinville’s name the source of speculation. According to the bogus priest, the detective had been supplied with only vague details about the missing actor’s appearance. The fact that Ballinger had been able to identify him, even though he had shaved off his beard and moustache, suggested the possession of more information than had been obtained at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre. Unless it had been given by Papa Champlain, the woman - whose face Cavallier had still not been permitted to see - was the most likely candidate to have supplied it prior to their arrival at the Bistro.

Hearing the man he had assumed to be a detective of the Chicago Police Department claim to be a member of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police had been alarming to Cavallier. He was aware of how efficient the newly formed force had already become,1 so it was disconcerting in the extreme to learn that one of its inspectors was in the city.

The discovery set thoughts racing through le Loup-Garou’s head. Foremost was that he had never heard of an Inspector Macdonald and he had taken care to learn all he could about the composition and strength of the ‘Mounties’. Next had come the realisation that, no matter whether the man was genuine, or in Chicago on some other business, Tinville must not be permitted to fall into his hands. The comment begun by the actor had been a reminder that he knew far too much about Cavallier’s affairs to be allowed to speak of it in either ‘Macdonald’s’ or Ballinger’s presence.

Even as le Loup-Garou was reaching this conclusion and wondering how to avert the danger, Claude Champlain provided his diversion. Seeing Tinville starting to run towards the door, Cavallier sprang in the same direction. Although he had the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker tucked into his trouser waistband, access to it was impeded by his vest and jacket being buttoned over it. However, he was carrying another weapon far more to his liking and readily available. Reaching over, his right hand slid the J. Russell & Co. ‘Green River’ knife from the sheath strapped to his left wrist. It was in his grasp by the time he had reached a position from which he could make the best use of it.

Ignoring the threat of the Webley revolvers being aimed at him by Captain Patrick Reeder and Lieutenant Ballinger, Claude took just as little notice of his father’s furious bellow for him to stop. Much to his surprise as he continued to charge at Belle Boyd, although her previous behaviour ought to have warned him against expecting otherwise, she showed no alarm. Unlike the previous victims of his wrathful attentions, she neither cowered nor tried to run away in the face of his fury. Instead, she sprang to meet him. The sight had an adverse effect upon his judgement.

Although Claude’s left hand was inoperative, his right was thrusting out with the intention of grasping and crushing a breast in the way he had found to be most effective on other occasions when dealing with members of the opposite sex. Under the circumstances he decided that he would be better advised to concentrate upon catching hold of his proposed victim’s right arm. It was rising rapidly and he had all too painful memories of what had happened the last time she struck at him with the end of the, as he assumed, broken parasol. It was, however, too late for him to change his tactics.

While the Rebel Spy’s reach was less than her assailant’s, the length of the billy nullified his advantage. Nor had she any qualms about using it. Ballinger’s comment about Claude having met a girl he could not ‘lick’ had warned her that mistreating members of her sex was a far from rare occurrence where he was concerned. For all that, being cognisant of how lethal the device could be, she had no wish to cause the lieutenant further difficulties or embarrassment. With the latter consideration in mind, she directed the steel ball against the top of Claude’s head at something less than the full force she was capable of producing.

In spite of Belle’s consideration, the blow she struck was sufficient for her purpose. Bright lights seemed to start bursting inside Claude’s skull as the unyielding steel ball made its impact. Then everything went black and, with his outstretched hand scraping down the front of her jacket as it fell limply to his side, he collapsed like a steer struck with a hide and tallow man’s pole-axe.2

‘Oh jolly well played, dear girl!’ the Remittance Kid enthused, momentarily losing his Scottish accent and not entirely surprised by what had happened. Then, remembering the character he had adopted, he went on, ‘That was a braw blow y - !’

‘Catch Tinville,’ Belle yelled, any gratification she might have felt at the praise being forgotten as she saw that the actor was in full flight and appeared to have a clear avenue of escape.

Swinging around, the Englishman and Ballinger were about to give chase when they saw a figure appear at the doorway. Tinville was between them and the newcomer, preventing them from being able to make out more than that somebody was on the sidewalk. However, the actor was at no such disadvantage. Recognising the man who was confronting him and seeing what the other was holding, he tried to come to a halt and scream a request for the weapon not to be used on him.

‘Don’t - !’ was all Tinville managed to utter in French.

‘Why not?’ countered le Loup-Garou in the same tongue.

Saying the words, Cavallier thrust with the eight inches long, razor sharp, clip-point blade.2 He selected the target he considered to be best suited for his purpose. Aimed with the skill gained by long practice, the knife bit through the inside left leg of the actor’s trousers with the intention of entirely severing the great femoral artery. Such a stroke, experience had taught him, would bring death more quickly than if it was delivered to almost any other portion of the human anatomy.

Having been a medical student before becoming an actor and joining the anarchist faction, a scream of agony burst from Tinville as he realised what had happened. Clutching at the blood-spurting wound, he twisted around and stumbled into the path of the approaching men. For once in his life, he was not deliberately obstructing the police. If he had been capable of thought, he would have wanted them to capture or kill his assailant.

Satisfied that his victim was as good as dead, le Loup-Garou turned and darted across the street. He realised that either Ballinger or the man who claimed to be a ‘Mountie’ was certain to take up the pursuit. Out of respect of their marksmanship, he went at a swerving sprint and made for the darkness of the nearest alley.

Seeing that Tinville was wounded and from its position, guessing at the seriousness of the injury, the Kid and Ballinger sprang forward even faster. They were just in time to catch him as his legs buckled under him. Lowering him to lay supine on the floor, each knew from the sight of the blood spurting through the gash in his trouser leg that there was little or no hope of him surviving. So they decided to follow the suggestion that they went after his assailant which Belle was making as she hurried towards them. Straightening up, they crossed to and went out of the door.

‘Over there!’ the Kid snapped, pointing with his Webley R.I.C. to where le Loup-Garou was already disappearing between two buildings on the other side of the street.

‘Stay with Belle, Rem!’ Ballinger requested, starting to run forward.

Having confidence in the detective’s ability to look after himself, the Kid raised no objections to the proposal. Instead, he turned and strode swiftly into the barroom. One glance told him that Ballinger had been correct in suggesting he should return. Belle was kneeling by the injured actor and, raising his shoulders to rest against her bent right leg, doing what she could to comfort him. Making the most of the opportunity with which they were being presented, Papa Champlain was bending to retrieve the sawed-off shotgun and Andre, an ugly look on his face, was stalking the Rebel Spy.

‘I wouldn’t advise it, gentlemen,’ the Kid warned, remembering to use the Scottish accent. He sounded almost benevolent, but the gesture with his revolver encompassed both the father and the elder son, bringing their respective movements to an end. Without taking his gaze from them, he went on, ‘How is he, lassie?’

Looking up, Belle gave her head a quick negative shake. Returning her gaze to Tinville’s pain-distorted and frightened face, she said gently, ‘Tell us who did it so we can make him pay for it.’

‘L - L - Le Loup-Garou!’ the young actor gasped, fighting off the gathering waves of weakness which were assailing him in his determination to be avenged. ‘I - It w - was le Loup-Garou.’

‘Who?’ Belle asked, speaking French as Tinville had been and feeling sure that she could not have heard correctly.

There was no answer. Although the actor’s mouth opened, his eyes glazed and his body went limp in the faint which preceded his death from loss of blood.

‘He said something about le Loup-Garou’ Belle said, reverting to English as she raised her eyes to look in bewilderment and disbelief at the Kid. ‘But he must have been rambling.’

‘Not necessarily, old girl,’ the Englishman replied in his natural voice, darting a glance to where Papa Champlain - having left the shotgun on the shelf once more - was coming from behind the counter.

‘But it means a werewolf’ Belle objected. ‘You know what that is, don’t you?’

‘One of those peculiar johnnies who changes into a wolf every time there’s a full moon and goes around biting people,’ the Kid answered. ‘I remember when my aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, first told me about them, I asked if the chappie got fleas when it happened.’ Seeing the exasperated glare the Rebel Spy directed at him, he became more serious and went back to the Highland accent. ‘Le - Loup-Garou means the not a werewolf, lassie. Or it could in this case and, if I’m right, this one isn’t in the least supernatural.’

‘Do you know the man who killed him?’ Belle asked.

‘Not know, lassie, have heard of,’ the Kid corrected. ‘Le Loup-Garou is the nickname of Arnaud Gavallier. He’s a Metis and, if rumours are correct, isn’t the most pleasant of them in spite of being one of the richest. It’s even been hinted that his ambition is to lead an independent nation of Metis, but nothing has ever been proven. Everybody who’s taken too close an interest in his affairs so far has met with a fatal accident - or rather what appears to have been one.’ ‘Then why would - ? ‘ Belle began.

‘I was asking myself the same thing,’ the Kid admitted, guessing what the unfinished question was going to be. ‘Why would a Metis with dreams of becoming the ruler of a nation of his own people be involved with a bunch of anarchists apparently raising money for the cause of Irish Republicanism.’

‘How badly is Claude hurt, Andre?’ Papa Champlain asked in his native tongue, drawing the couple’s attention to him before they could continue the conversation.

‘He’s recovering,’ the elder brother replied, darting a baleful glare at the cause of his sibling’s indisposition.

‘It could have been far worse, m’sieur’ Belle pointed out, laying Tinville flat on the floor and speaking French with a Louisiana accent. ‘I only struck to stun him.’

‘Deuced considerate of you, I thought, under the circumstances,’ the Kid went on, showing that he had followed the brief conversation although he spoke in English.

‘I have a feeling that neither of you are what you have said you are’ Papa commented, walking forward, having noticed that ‘Inspector Macdonald’ had not taken the precaution of removing the spring-loaded billy which lay alongside the girl’s right knee and appeared to change his accent in a puzzling fashion.

‘That’s more than likely,’ Belle replied, picking up the billy and rising. ‘What is more, m’sieur, providing you answer a few questions, we may be able to save you from serious trouble with the police.’

‘Trouble,’ Champlain growled, trying to sound as if the possibility had not occurred to him. ‘What kind of trouble could I be in?’

‘Just before he died,’ Belle answered, with such apparent sincerity she might have been speaking the truth. ‘Tinville told us you were holding him against his will and that could be construed as kidnapping.’

‘Which is the way Lieutenant Ballinger would construe it,’ the Kid supplemented, deducing what the Rebel Spy was hoping to accomplish and demonstrating an equal facility to speak French as he supported her. ‘Having a dying confession made in the presence of two official witnesses will give him all the proof he needs to arrest you.’

‘I see,’ the proprietor said quietly, but he sounded uneasy rather than defiant as he swung his eyes to Belle and went on, ‘It seems to me, mademoiselle, that your official standing might be open to question.’

‘Do you want to gamble on it?’ the Rebel Spy challenged, tapping the billy gently against her right thigh. ‘I think that, even if I was what you thought I was. Lieutenant Ballinger and his superiors would rather have a certain case against you than something vague and practically impossible to prove against me.’

‘But the lady isn’t what she pretended to be,’ the Kid elaborated, returning the Webley to its holster on the back of his belt as if satisfied he would have no further need of it. ‘Far from it, m’sieur. In fact she has sufficient influence in far higher places than the Chicago Police Department to be able to refute any accusations you might try to make against her.’

‘Who are you, mademoiselle?’ Champlain asked, staring with something like awe.

‘It’s better for you that I don’t answer that,’ Belle stated, in tones which exuded menace. ‘Just be content with knowing I can help you - providing you help me, of course.’

‘What do you want of me?’ Champlain asked sullenly, then glanced to where Andre was helping Claude to rise. ‘Take him to his room and make sure he stays there.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ the elder brother assented and did as he was told without any protests or further attempts by his sibling to attack the Rebel Spy.

‘Start at the beginning,’ Belle requested, after the two young men had left the room by a rear door. ‘Why did Tinville come to you?’

‘He said he’d quarrelled with that crowd of anarchists who were doing the show for the Irish at O’Malley’s theatre,’ the proprietor obliged, sitting at a table. ‘So he wanted to get out of the country. But why he should have come to me -’

‘We want facts, not fairy tales!’ Belle interrupted coldly. “Your private affairs are of no concern to us, unless you make them so.’

‘I meant he was Belgian, not French,’ Ghamplain explained, accepting that it was useless to pretend he was merely an honest businessman. ‘But he said he’d arranged with two different thieves to have the anarchists robbed of the money they’d already collected for the Irish. Whichever of them did it would meet him here with some of it to buy some further information he’d pretended to have. It was his idea we should rob the one who came.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ Belle purred, but her manner suggested exactly the opposite. ‘What did he tell you about the anarchists’ plans?’

‘Plans, madam - ?’ the proprietor began.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me!’ Belle advised and her manner became charged with menace. ‘You knew the people he was trying to desert are working with Phineas Branigan. So you’d want to find out what they were up to in case it might have an adverse effect on you. Tinville was neither loyal nor courageous. He’d tell you all he knew.’

‘You’d better co-operate, m’sieur!’ the Kid warned.

‘Just remember that I have!’ Champlain requested, having detected a similar warning in the Englishman’s voice. ‘According to him, they’ve been collecting money to buy arms for what they’re planning.’

‘To send them to Republicans in Ireland,’ Belle said, in tones of one being given information which was already in her possession.

‘No,’ Ghamplain contradicted. ‘It sounded so unlikely that I thought he was lying, but he said they have an army of Irishmen waiting for them and are going to invade Canada.’ Seeing the disbelieving glances directed at him by the couple, he continued, ‘I give you my word of honour that is what he told me. As I said, I didn’t believe him at first either. But nothing could shake his story.’

‘Where is this army?’ the Kid demanded, impressed by the old man’s obvious sincerity and unable to conceive why he should have made up such an unlikely story.

‘He wasn’t sure of the name of the place,’ Champlain replied. ‘But he said that the priest would be taking their party to what I believe is Stokeley in Montana. Anyway, he said they were going there by train and there’s only one railroad into Montana, the spur that runs north from Mulrooney, Kansas.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Belle conceded. ‘And Tinville might have been speaking the truth. If so, that could explain why the Metis are working with them. They could have come to some arrangement with the man who killed him.’

‘It’s possible,’ the Kid admitted. ‘Arnaud Cavallier - ’

‘Arnaud Cavallier?’ Champlain put in, spitting out the name rather than merely saying it as if hating to have it in his mouth. ‘Do you mean le Loup-Garou, m’sieur?’

‘That’s who I mean,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I know the half-breed pig all right!’ Champlain snarled, thinking bitterly of a costly project to import Indian and Metis girls as prostitutes he had financed and which was ruined when he refused to cut in Cavallier for fifty per cent of the profits. ‘Was that him who killed Le - whatever you called him?’

‘It was,’ Belle declared, deciding that she might obtain more information if she accepted the actor’s identification of his assailant without waiting for confirmation.

‘Are you sure ?’ Champlain demanded, frowning in puzzlement.

‘I didn’t see him,’ Belle admitted. ‘But that’s who Tinville said it was. Why?’

‘I hadn’t heard he was back in Chicago,’ Champlain replied, sounding aggrieved by the omission.

‘And you should have been?’ the Kid suggested.

‘I should have!’ Champlain confirmed, thinking of the arrangements he had made so he would learn if le Loup-Garou returned to the city. ‘If you want him, he usually stays at the Paris Hotel.’

‘He may have guessed you’ve somebody working there and is staying somewhere else,’ Belle deduced. ‘Have you any idea where?”

‘No!’ Champlain stated. ‘But I don’t think it’s in the French quarter, or I’d have heard about it.’4

Further discussion was ended by a police whistle shrilling from fairly close to the Bistro. Hearing it answered from two points further away and footsteps approaching across the street, Belle went to pick up her skirt. She was donning it when Ballinger entered. He was carrying her Kerry coat, which had been dropped on the opposite sidewalk when he and the Kid had dashed to her aid.

‘He got away,’ the detective announced unnecessarily. ‘Damned if I’ve ever seen anybody, except the Ysabel Kid, who could move so fast and quiet in the dark.’ He swept his gaze around the room and halted it at the motionless figure on the floor. ‘Got the femoral artery, huh?’

‘Yes,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘Although even a doctor couldn’t have saved him, I’ve seen it done better. He lived just long enough to tell us who did it.’

‘That’s something,’ Ballinger growled, being aware of how quickly death usually came as a result of such an injury. ‘Was it anybody I know?’

‘A man called Arnaud Gavallier, alias le Loup-Garou’ the Kid answered, but could see that neither name meant anything to the lieutenant. ‘Papa here very obligingly told us where we might find him.’

‘I’ll go and see if he’s there when the local harness bulls arrive to take care of things,” Ballinger decided, wondering how Champlain’s co-operation had been obtained.

‘Mind if we come along?’ the Kid requested. ‘My superiors will want me to follow it through.’

‘I’ll be pleased to have you, “Inspector”,’ Ballinger declared. ‘Unless you’re too tired, ma’am?’

‘I’m fine thank you, lieutenant,’ Belle replied, pleased by the way the detective had supported the Kid’s pretence of being a member of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police and refrained from mentioning her name. She listened for a moment to the sounds of two sets of running feet converging on the Bistro, then went on ‘Thank you for everything, M’sieur Champlain. I know I can rely upon your discretion where I’m concerned, as you can on mine.’

‘Of course, mademoiselle!’ Champlain confirmed fervently, hoping his mysterious female visitor was as influential as he had been led to assume and would intercede on his behalf.

‘I just may be seeing you later, Papa,’ Ballinger warned, with thinly veiled menace. ‘So I’ll be obliged if you tell anybody who comes asking about this dead feller that you don’t know who killed him, or why.’

‘I’ll do that, lieutenant,’ Champlain promised, as pleasantly as he could manage.

‘I’d like to thank you, Ed,’ the Kid remarked as Belle, he and the detective were walking away from the Bistro after the latter had told the summoned patrolmen what he wanted doing. ‘You’ve been a thorough gentleman all through this affair.’

‘That’s the first time anybody’s ever accused me of being one of them,’ Ballinger answered, grinning. ‘But I’ve a bad feeling that I’m not going to be able to nail Papa’s hide to the wall this time.’

‘There’s nothing you could do it with, unless you called us as witnesses,’ Belle pointed out. ‘And I don’t think any of us wants that.’

‘I don’t reckon any of us do,’ Ballinger conceded, being aware of how irregular his own conduct had been. ‘How much did you learn from that old son-of-a-bi - gentleman’?’’

‘Only a little,’ the Kid confessed, amused by the way in which the detective had amended the description of Champlain out of respect for Belle’s presence. ‘But what he told us was very disturbing.”

1 The Canadian Northwest Mounted Police were founded in May, 1873. According to the legend, their original name was to be the Northwest Mounted Rifles. However, when the United States’ Congress expressed concern about the presence of a military force operating along its border with Canada, the first commanding officer, Colonel George A. French, substituted the word ‘Police’ for ‘Rifles’ and this proved acceptable to both countries. J.T.E.

2 Details of how a pole-axe is used are given in: THE HIDE AND TALLOW MEN. J.T.E.

3 For the benefit of new readers : a ‘spear point’ blade had two sharpened edges coming together in symmetrical convex curves, as opposed to the more utilitarian ‘clip’ point of the ‘bowie’ type of knives wherein only the last few inches of the otherwise unsharpened ‘back’ of the blade forms a concave arc to join and become an extension of the main cutting surface. J.T.E.

4 Knowing of Head ‘Papa’ Champlain’s hatred and suspecting arrangements had been made to have his arrival reported, Arnaud Cavallier had not taken his usual suite at the Paris Hotel. Lieutenant Ballinger’s investigations proved he stayed with a respectable and well-to-do family of British origin, who were unaware of his true nature and purpose, while he was waiting for his two Metis supporters to join him with the remainder of the money he required to pay for his share of the arms. J.T.E.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A MOST REMARKABLE YOUNG WOMAN

“What happened?’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ demanded, without wasting time on preliminary greetings, as he stalked into the sitting room of the house in Chicago’s Polish quarter which Phineas Branigan had declared was unknown to the police and would offer a safe refuge.

‘Your brother is dead, mademoiselle,’ Arnaud Cavallier announced, coming to his feet and directing the words to Vera Gorr-Kauphin. She had followed the impostor in and had a far from pleasant look on her face which did not change to grief at the news. Still holding the J. Russell & Co. ‘Green River’ knife he had been cleaning while seated at the table and awaiting the couple’s arrival, le Loup-Garou continued, ‘And so is Raoul Fourmies, although he is no great loss. It also cost me Pierre and Jean-Louis.’

Having succeeded in evading Lieutenant Edward Ballinger’s pursuit, not without difficulty, Cavallier had decided against returning to the vicinity of the Bistro le Marsellaise to find out whether he had silenced Marcel Tinville. He had known that to do so would entail far greater danger than lurking among the crowd outside the Streeterville Municipal Hospital. Furthermore, confident in his ability to wield the knife, he had no doubt that the would-be betrayer had died without being able to divulge any information.

Making his way towards O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre, Cavallier had learned why ‘Father Devlin’ had been so insistent that he should only return from one direction. Before he had arrived, he was intercepted by one of Branigan’s men and informed that the impostor and actress had left, but there were police on the premises. Although they were there to guard against any further attempts at arson, he had appreciated the dangers of having his presence questioned and possibly being taken to be interviewed by Ballinger. He had found the moccasins invaluable while eluding the detective in the darkness, but realised they were such an unusual kind of footwear in Chicago that they were sure to be noticed. Nor had he doubted that Ballinger was shrewd enough to conclude on seeing them that he might be with the two men in similar attire who had been killed at the hospital.

On being taken to the house in which Vera and ‘Devlin’ would be spending the night, Cavallier was informed that they had not returned. Wanting to hear how they had fared with the arms salesman, he had elected to await their arrival in the sitting room instead of accepting the offer of a bed. His vigil had not been prolonged and he had only just finished giving the knife a thorough cleaning when they made their appearance.

‘What went wrong, damn it?’ the impostor inquired, his harsh voice showing more than its usual asperity.

‘Ballinger came to the hospital shortly after Fourmies had gone up to do his work,’ Cavallier explained and, being sensitive to atmosphere, deduced there was not the best of feelings between the couple. ‘When he learned of the visit, he must have guessed what Fourmies was up to and went to stop it.’

‘Then why didn’t you stop him?’ ‘Devlin’ challenged.

‘We tried,’ le Loup-Garou replied gently, but his eyes tightened in a way which indicated he did not care for the impostor’s tone. He went on, with less truth, ‘And, in fact, we delayed Ballinger and his party for long enough to let Fourmies carry out his task. But, when it was over, our gallant brotherhood had lost three of its valiant and valued members.’

‘And you escaped,’ ‘Devlin’ commented, oozing offence.

‘As I am here and talking with you, mon cher Pere Mathieu, it is reasonable to assume I escaped,’ Cavallier answered and made a slight, but noticeable gesture with the knife he had not put down. ‘And, for your sake, as well as for the sake of our Great Cause, you may consider it was fortunate I not only escaped but had the courage to remain near the hospital which you declined to visit.’

‘What might that mean?’ the impostor snarled, his right hand reaching across to unbutton his jacket and allow access to the short barrelled Smith & Wesson Russian Model revolver which had been returned to the cross draw holster on the left side of his waist belt on leaving Ernst Kramer’s house.

‘Personally,’ Vera put in. ‘I fail to see how it would have served the purpose of any of us if Mr Gavallier had been killed.’

‘As always, mademoiselle,’ le Loup-Garou responded, bowing without relaxing his watch on ‘Devlin’. ‘Your wisdom is exceeded only by your beauty and charm. Shall we sit down while I tell you of my adventures?’

‘Very well,’ Vera assented, pulling out a chair and, after scowling for a moment, the impostor did the same.

As Cavallier had deduced, the actress was feeling anything but well disposed towards ‘Devlin’. There had been an acrimonious debate on the journey from Kramer’s home. Neither had the kind of temperament to tolerate criticism. So, when she had protested about them having to find an extra fifteen hundred dollars as well as the money lost in the fire, he had countered by pointing out it was she who suggested paying the bonus in the first place. He had gone on to say that she had almost ruined everything before he prevented her from telling the arms salesman that they would be leaving Chicago.

A shrewd strategist, Cavallier was not averse to making the most of the rift between his fellow conspirators. When he had heard that the anarchists from Europe with whom he was allying himself were led by a woman, he had looked forward to meeting her. Like the Champlain brothers, his sexual appetite was well developed. However, considering himself to be a conqueror of female hearts, he had also anticipated being able to turn her into an eager and unquestioning supporter of his wishes. In view of his relationship with the imposter, he had felt this would be of inestimable value.

From the beginning of their association, there had never been any rapport between le Loup-Garou and ‘Devlin’. Not only had the impostor a tendency towards racial prejudice he could never entirely conceal, in spite of his pretence of believing in equality, he assumed he had the right to command and everybody else must accept his orders without question. That the Metis was not only born of mixed parentage, but was also rich and influential, served as a constant irritant. So did his refusal to accept subordinate status. Nor was the situation improved by ‘Devlin’ realising that neither his pose as a priest, nor his genuine reputation for being tough and unscrupulous caused Cavallier any trepidation. While he had always been able to dominate his male associates with one or the other in the past, having found it useful to masquerade in a similar guise on two previous occasions, he was soon aware this did not apply to the handsome and equally ruthless le Loup-Garou.

‘I followed Ballinger, a man, and a most remarkable young woman who were with him when they left the hospital,’ Cavallier commenced, when they were all seated, picking up the cloth and pretending to continue cleaning his knife blade. He had not seen any sign that Vera was impressed by his flattery, so went on, ‘Not without some risk to myself, I might add.’

‘Who were they?’ ‘Devlin’ asked, watching the Metis’ hands.

‘That is what I hoped to find out,’ Cavallier replied. ‘So I followed them to what I believe you Irish call “Frog Town”. Straight to the Bistro le Marsellaise, which was clearly their destination and not just being visited by chance. So charming a person as yourself will never have heard of it, mademoiselle, although I would have expected Pere Mathieu to know of it if only when some of its usual customers attend the confessional.’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ the impostor admitted, although his information had not come about from carrying out the parochial duty to which le Loup-Garou referred.

‘And who do you think was there?’ Cavallier continued. ‘I mean apart from Papa Champlain and his two fine sons?’

‘Who?’ Vera asked, seeing that ‘Devlin’ was growing uneasy and, having no idea what made the Bistro le Marseillaise out of the ordinary, wondering why this should be.

‘None other than our good, if absent friend Marcel Tinville,’ Cavallier announced dramatically.

‘Tinville - !’ ‘Devlin’ ejaculated, his frown increasing.

‘In person, as large as life and, some might say, twice as handsome,’ Cavallier confirmed in a silky purr, delighted by the reaction his news had produced. ‘I’m only surprised that somebody hadn’t already guessed he would go there in search of succour.’

‘There was no reason to think he would, seeing he’s Belgian, not French,’ the bogus priest pointed out in exculpation, knowing the accusation was levelled at him. Then a realisation of what the news might mean drove away his resentment over the jibe about his lack of forethought. ‘Do you mean Ballinger’s got Tinville?’

‘Ballinger has him,’ Cavallier answered, amused by the consternation which was displayed by his companions and, tossing aside the cloth, he flourished the knife. ‘At least, Ballinger has his silent and worthless corpse.’

‘You killed him?’ Vera asked, showing no more emotion than she had when informed of her brother’s death.

‘Of course,’ le Loup-Garou confirmed in a matter of fact tone. ‘The risk was great, but worth taking considering what was involved.’

‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ ‘Devlin’ challenged, reluctant to concede that his disliked fellow conspirator had achieved such a coup.

‘I didn’t give him la Petite here “up to the Green River”,’ Cavallier admitted, tossing the knife in a glistening somersault which brought the hilt back to his palm without him needing even a glance to ensure it was falling correctly. ‘But a cut across the inside of the thigh, man cher Pere Mathieu, is just as effective and even more certain to kill quickly.’

‘Did he have time to talk about us before you killed him?’ Vera asked, displaying no revulsion over the details and refraining from appearing curious in spite of wondering what the term “up to the Green River” meant.1

‘He had no time, mademoiselle,’ Cavallier declared, but he did not mention he had taken his departure and made no attempt to find out whether the deserter had died before being able to supply information. Wanting to avoid further questions, in case the matter should be raised, he went on, ‘But I did hear something. Not from him. The man I had thought to be no more than one of Ballinger’s detectives claimed he was an inspector of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police.’

‘The hell you say!’ ‘Devlin’ spat out. ‘Then they may have heard-!’

‘Perhaps, man cher Pere Mathieu’ Cavallier interrupted, more amused than alarmed by the impostor’s unconcealed perturbation. ‘But, to the best of my knowledge, there is no Inspector Macdonald - which is the name he gave - in the “Mounties’ ’

‘Then why - ?’ ‘Devlin’ began.

‘Then who - ?’ the actress commenced at the same instant.

‘I have been asking myself both questions,’ le Loup-Garou confessed wryly. ‘His voice was that of the kind of upper class Scot who provide the British Army’s Highland regiments with most of their officers. But he was dressed in the same way as most of the Irish working men in this part of Chicago. Whoever he might be, he must have some kind of official standing or a man like Ballinger would not be on such good terms with him.’

‘What did he look like?’ Vera inquired, just beating ‘Devlin’ to the question.

‘He was about Ballinger’s height, slightly more slender,’ Cavallier supplied, ‘with a neat black moustache and a large nose that looked as if it had been broken.’

‘Had he a scar on his left cheek?’ the impostor snapped, the Metis’ last words having reminded him of the description he had been given of Shamus O’Toole’s assailant.

‘Not that I saw,’ Cavallier replied. ‘But I didn’t have a chance to look at him too closely. Why?’

‘We had trouble at O’Malley’s with a man answering to that description, except that he had a scar,’ ‘Devlin’ explained.

‘And spoke with an Irish brogue,’ Vera supplemented, annoyed by the bogus priest having raised the points which she had been on the point of mentioning.

‘Then he couldn’t have been the one with Ballinger,’ Cavallier asserted, seeing a chance of strengthening his position with the actress. ‘I’ve heard his kind of accent often enough to recognise it and nobody could mistake it for an Irish brogue.’

‘Oh my god!’ Vera gasped, a thought striking her as ‘Devlin’ - who was seething with anger over the way she and Cavallier were combining to refute everything he said - was drawing a similar conclusion. ‘If it should have been the same man, he could be a member of the British Secret Service.’

‘It’s possible,’ the Metis admitted, more from a desire to show support for the actress than because he had given the matter any consideration,

‘It’s more than just possible!’ Vera protested and, although like most of her political persuasion she would generally try to decry her country’s achievements, she went on to strengthen her arguments. ‘If some of them can pass themselves off as natives in India and Arabia, which has been done, it would be far easier for one to be capable of impersonating a Scot and an Irishman. But would Ballinger help him in that case?’

‘If he’s got Republican sympathies, he’s never shown them,’ the impostor answered as the other two swung their gaze in his direction. ‘And, from what I’ve heard of him, he’d help any other peace officer, even one from a foreign country, if he thought the reason was good enough.’

‘But Mr Cavallier said he wasn’t a member of the Canad - !’ Vera commenced, but stopped as a realization struck her.

‘If he’s in the British Secret Service, they’d be able to supply him with all he’d need to pass as a “Mountie”,’ ‘Devlin’ carried on, making the point which had just occurred to the actress. Swinging an accusatory gaze at le Loup-Garou, he growled. ‘Have any of your - ?’

‘As he was here and dressed in the fashion of your men, it’s more likely he learned what you were up to at the theatre tonight and about the money from one of them,’ Cavallier countered and a note of asperity entered his voice for the first time. ‘None of mine knew anything about that.’

‘You said something about there being a woman with them,’ Vera injected hurriedly, seeking a change of subject before an open confrontation erupted between the two men.

She told herself bitterly that she could not do without either under the circumstances and wondered how many times she had been compelled to intervene when clashes of ego, or temperament among her male associates threatened to ruin the aims towards which they were working. ‘Was there something unusual about her?’

‘Everything about her was unusual,’ Cavallier declared. Having described what he had seen and deduced about Belle Boyd, he concluded, ‘But who she was -’

‘Holy mother of god!’ ‘Devlin’ barked. Hearing how the mystery woman had been allowed to enter the Bistro le Marsellaise unescorted and what had followed, he added it to the theory expounded by Ballinger on how Colin Gorr-Kauphin was injured and drew a conclusion for which he did not care. ‘She could have been the Rebel Spy!’

‘We’ve heard of her, even in Canada,’ Cavallier conceded. ‘But that was during your Civil War. By all accounts, she gave you Yankees a great deal of trouble.’

‘She did!’ the impostor gritted, thinking bitterly of various incidents which fitted the description given by the Metis. ‘According to what I heard, she was very good at savate - !’

‘Savate?’ Vera put in, duplicating ‘Devlin’s’ line of thought on that aspect. ‘Are you saying it was she who was in the theatre and started the fire?’

‘All I’m saying is she’s said to be good at savate’ the bogus priest corrected. ‘And you know how Ballinger said your brother -’

‘Is she working for the British Secret Service now?’ the actress interrupted.

‘Like hell she is!’ ‘Devlin’ answered, bristling with indignation. ‘She was allowed to join the U.S. Secret Service after the war and is still with them.’

‘Then your people are after us!’ Vera snapped and le Loup-Garou found satisfaction from the reproachful manner in which she was speaking.

‘My people, as you call them, aren’t!’ the impostor contradicted angrily, noticing how the Metis was reacting to the accusation. ‘But the United States Secret Service might be. All those who were in sympathy with us during the war were kicked out when that bastard Handiman took charge after it was over.’

‘Your Government would never let him set his spies on us!’ Vera objected.

‘Congress wouldn’t have to be told he was doing it,’ ‘Devlin’ warned. ‘He’s answerable only to the President, And it’s not every Congressman who’d be in agreement with what we’re up to, even if it was no more than just collecting money to buy and send arms to Ireland. Don’t forget, Congress made the Fenians give up Fort Erie, Ontario, after they captured it in Sixty-six.2 And they’re even more wary since the Alabama Arbitration Tribunal found for them in Seventy-two. So, if Handiman got word of it, he’d send her to find out more about what we’re up to and, if necessary, to stop it.’

‘Would she dare go as far as setting fire to the theatre?’ Vera asked.

‘She’d come prepared for something of the sort,’ ‘Devlin’ replied. ‘I told you that fire wasn’t just started by dropping a match on to the money.’

‘But to endanger her own people like that - !’ the actress protested, despite knowing she herself would take similar measures to achieve her purpose.

‘She broke the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom a couple of years back and they were Rebs she’d fought alongside in the War,’3 the impostor pointed out. ‘And, anyway, there wasn’t any great chance of the whole theatre going up in flames before somebody saw the fire and set about putting it out. So she’d know she could burn, or damage the money without too much risk of anybody getting hurt.’

‘How does the loss and damage affect the buying of the arms?’ Cavallier put in.

‘We can still get them,” ‘Devlin’ answered, scowling bale-fully at Vera as he was reminded of what had caused the latest breach between them. ‘All we have to do is make good the money that was burned - and pay an extra fifteen hundred dollars so he’ll take the damaged coins.’

‘You agreed to that?’ Cavallier snapped, sounding incredulous and directing the words at the impostor.

‘Miss Gorr-Kauphin here offered the bonus,’ ‘Devlin’ corrected, having no intention of being blamed even if avoiding it widened the rift with the actress. I managed to hold it down to fifteen hundred.’

‘There’s one thing I want understood!’ Cavallier stated, before the woman could speak, coming to his feet with the knife still in his hand. The expression on his face suggested how he had acquired the sobriquet le Loup-Garou, being charged with a savage and determined, almost inhuman, menace. ‘You had the Metis’ money in full after the fire. So the discrepancy must be made up by the Irish. We don’t pay a thin dime more.’

‘That’s understood!’ Vera assented and, after a moment, knowing how much depended upon them keeping Cavallier’s support, ‘Devlin’ nodded his agreement. ‘But can we go on after what’s happened.’

‘If we cut and run, we’ll never get another chance,’ ‘Devlin’ warned, watching the Metis sit once more and noticing he did not lay down the knife. ‘Besides, there might not be any need to. It all depends on how much they know about us.’

‘Whatever it is,’ Cavallier remarked. ‘She learned it from Tinville if what happened at the Bistro le Marseillaise is any guide.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Vera admitted, much as she hated to do so.

‘As I said, they went straight there from the hospital,’ Cavallier explained. ‘So they expected he would be waiting. As she went in alone, it must have been her he was waiting for. The thing is, how much has he told her?’

‘It won’t be much,’ ‘Devlin’ guessed, drawing consolation from the thought that the deserter was not party to the item of information which would have the greatest effect upon him personally. ‘He knew about the money and, although he knows about the invasion of Canada, he doesn’t know from where or by whom it’s to be made.’

“Does he know about us?’ Cavallier demanded.

‘No,’ ‘Devlin’ Replied, being unaware that Tinville had learned that their party was going to Stokeley, Montana, but not the true purpose of the visit. So she’s got nothing to help her as far as that is concerned.’

‘How about Ballinger?’ Gavallier asked.

‘Even if he’s suspicious, he won’t have any real proof,’ the impostor answered. ‘And, without it, he’ll not be willing to chance making accusations against a “priest”.’

‘Perhaps the woman, or the English spy have given him the proof,’ Vera suggested.

‘It’s not likely they have any they could use,’ ‘Devlin’ objected. ‘Or would chance giving him, even if they’ve admitted to what they really are. No, with Tinville, Fourmies and your brother dead, they’ve got nothing strong enough for Ballinger to risk his career by using. So we’re safe enough as long as we make sure nothing else goes wrong. And once we’ve got the arms deal settled, we’ll be out of Chicago and beyond their reach.’

1 First manufactured in 1834 at Greenfield, Massachusetts - on the banks of the Green River - the very popular type of knife carried by Arnaud Cavallier had the maker’s name ‘J. Russell & Co. Green River Works’ inscribed along the blade just below the guard of the hilt. Any knife driven into a human adversary ‘up to the Green River’ was likely to prove fatal whether the inscription was there or not. J.T.E.

2 The Fenians, members of a secret Irish revolutionary brotherhood founded in New York during the late 1850’s, were dedicated to freeing Ireland from British rule. In June, 1866, a force of one thousand men - mostly Civil War veterans - was organised by them and invaded Canada. By doing so, the Fenians hoped to bring pressure to bear upon the British Government to grant home rule to Ireland. J.T.E.

3 Told in: TO ARMS! TO ARMS! IN DIXIE! and THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. J.T.E.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HE MANAGED TO SLIP BY US

‘Good morning, Lieutenant Ballinger,’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ greeted, standing up as the housekeeper brought the detective into the study of the presbytery.1 Only with an effort of will could he restrain a desire to glance down at the Smith & Wesson Russian Model revolver in the partially open right hand drawer as he waved his left hand to indicate the chair at the other side of the desk. Tense and ready to grab for the weapon at the first hint that he might need it, he managed to continue in a calm voice, ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee or anything?’

‘Nothing, thank you, Father,’ Lieutenant Edward Ballinger replied, sitting down and placing his billycock hat on the desk.

‘That’ll be all then, Mrs Galloway,’ the impostor said, taking his seat. He did not close the drawer, but waited until the housekeeper had left before asking, ‘And what can I do for you?’

‘Have you any idea where Miss Gorr-Kauphin might be?’ Ballinger inquired, deciding from the bogus priest’s appearance that he too had had little sleep the previous night. ‘Captain O’Halloran tells me she wasn’t at the County Clare Hotel last night when he went to let her know what had happened to her brother.’

‘Wasn’t it the terrible thing!’ ‘Devlin’ answered, scanning the detective’s craggy features in the hope of learning something from his expression and having no success. ‘Mrs Galloway told me about it when I came down to breakfast and I was meaning to go to see Miss Gorr-Kauphin when she said you’d come.’ He paused, then went on when Ballinger made no comment, ‘I didn’t think it’d be safe for her at the hotel with that spalpeen Tinville still on the loose. So, rather than put extra work on the police and maybe for no reason, I took her to a place where he’d not be able to find her. I’d have let the captain know what I’d done, but on the way back I was met and asked to give the last rites to one of my parishioners. It was gone four o’clock this morning when I got home.’

In spite of his belief that Ballinger lacked sufficient legally acceptable proof to take action against him, at least as long as his guise as a priest was still intact, the impostor was far from at ease. He felt sure that O’Halloran, having come to see him at the presbytery after visiting the hotel, would have mentioned his absence to the detective. Everything now depended upon the response to the explanation of his whereabouts. If Ballinger asked for the name of the non-existent dying parishioner, it would mean his deception was suspected.

‘Then you’ll not have heard all that happened?’ the detective remarked.

‘Not if there’s something more than the captain told Mrs Galloway when he called last night,’ the impostor answered, hoping that his relief at the apparent acceptance of his story did not show. ‘She said that poor young Mr Gorr-Kauphin was done to death at the hospital and you’d got the blackguards who killed him. Was one of them Tinville?’

‘We thought one might be at first,’ Ballinger lied, but convincingly. ‘Then, going on the description you’d given me, I realised it couldn’t be him.”

‘Then you don’t know who the killer was?’

‘All we know is that he got into Mr Gorr-Kauphin’s room dressed as a priest.’

‘The sinful, sacrilegious devil!’ ‘Devlin’ ejaculated, sounding genuinely indignant at such impious behaviour. ‘Would you be wanting me to come and look at the body, just in case it is Tinville?’

‘You can come and see if you can make an identification,’ Ballinger assented. ‘But we know it isn’t him.’

‘You’re certain of it?’ ‘Devlin’ asked, wondering if Raoul Fourmies had been recognised despite the change to his appearance caused by the removal of his whiskers and having had his hair cut.

‘Certain,’ the detective confirmed. ‘I met an Inspector Macdonald of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police at the hospital. He’d a woman with him, an informer, who took us to where Tinville was waiting for her. It seems that since he came here, he’d got mixed up with a bunch of French-Canadian outlaws who’re on the run from the law north of the border.’

‘Then they must have encouraged him to try and rob Miss Gorr-Kauphin!’ ‘Devlin’ suggested. ‘Only when her brother caught him at it, he set fire to the trunk out of badness.’

‘It’s possible,’ Ballinger conceded, having no intention of revealing that he was aware of who had caused the fire. ‘Although she said he didn’t know the money was there.’

‘He could have heard it was without her knowing,’ the impostor countered. ‘It’s not easy to keep anything secret when you’re travelling together and changing in dressing-rooms next door to one another. Was that spalpeen who dressed as a priest one of them French Canadians?’

‘The inspector didn’t recognise him,’ Ballinger replied, speaking the truth apart from his reference to Captain Patrick Reeder’s status. However, his veracity slipped as he continued, ‘He said the two we killed were part of the gang and it’s likely the one who killed Tinville is too, but we didn’t get a good enough look at him to be sure.’

‘Tinville’s been killed?’ ‘Devlin’ gasped, responding as if the news was unexpected.

‘Yes,’ Ballinger admitted, wondering if Fourmies could have been acting upon the instructions of a faction unconnected with the ‘priest’ as he listened to and watched the reaction elicited by his information.

‘Did he tell you why he’d done what he did before he died?’

‘He didn’t have time. Before we could ask him, he managed to slip by us and was running out of the door when he was killed.”

‘And you don’t know who did it?’

‘No. Like I said, we didn’t get more than a fleeting glimpse of the feller who did it. He must have either followed us from the hospital, unless he was keeping watch outside the Bistro le Marseillaise - Do you know it?”

‘I’ve heard of it,’ ‘Devlin’ admitted in a non-committal tone. ‘Why was Tinville there do you think?’

‘Papa Champlain reckoned he said he was waiting for a lady friend who couldn’t get away from where she worked any earlier,’ Ballinger answered, having heard other priests speak in a similar cagey fashion when questioned on a matter which could involve information acquired during a confessional. ‘Do you know if he had one?’

‘I don’t,’ ‘Devlin’ replied, refraining from commenting that he considered it to be highly unlikely. ‘Perhaps Miss Gorr-Kauphin could tell you. She knows him much better than I do.’

‘Maybe she could,’ Ballinger said pensively. ‘But I don’t know whether it’d be right bothering her at a time like this. After all, she’ll not be feeling like talking when she hears about her brother.’

‘That’s considerate of you, lieutenant,’ the impostor praised. ‘It will be better if you leave the questioning until after I’ve seen her and broke the tragic news. She was grieving enough over her brother being so badly hurt and she’ll need time to compose herself when she hears he’s dead.’

‘I can understand that,’ the detective admitted, in spite of remembering that the actress had not struck him as being over distressed by her brother’s condition when he had seen her at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre. ‘But I’ll have to see her and the sooner the better. Perhaps it would be as well if you were with her when I do.’

‘I was thinking that myself.’

‘Where shall we get together, then?”

‘Would here be all right?’ ‘Devlin’ offered.

‘That’d be fine,’ Ballinger assented. ‘I have to go back to Headquarters first, though. How soon will it be convenient for me to come?’

‘Shall we say at three this afternoon?’ ‘Devlin’ suggested, resisting the temptation to say it would not be convenient and thinking of how he would be delayed in setting about obtaining the balance of the payment for Ernst Kramer.

‘Three’ll suit me fine,’ the detective confirmed.

‘Do you want me to have Mr Fourmies here as well?” the impostor asked, realising that he ought to show some interest in the artist and avoid any suggestion of knowing his suggestion was impossible to carry out.

‘It’d be as well,’ Ballinger declared, wondering if he might be wrong in his assumption that Fourmies was one of the three men killed at the theatre. ‘Did he go with you and Miss Gorr-Kauphin last night?’

‘No. We asked him to, but he said he’d rather go to the hotel.’

‘That’s strange. He wasn’t there either when Captain O’Halloran asked last night or when he sent a patrolman to see him this morning.’

‘That is strange,’ ‘Devlin’ agreed. Then, seeing a way of averting suspicion of complicity for himself and the actress, he simulated alarm as he went on, ‘You don’t think he could have been in cahoots with those spalpeens from Canada, do you?’

‘The inspector’s informer didn’t mention it if he was,’ the detective replied. ‘Is there any reason for you thinking he should be?’

‘No real reason,’ the impostor confessed. ‘But he is French and him and Tinville were always pretty close - ’ Stopping speaking, he slapped his left hand on the desk as if he had suddenly been struck by a thought and continued, ‘I don’t like thinking bad of anybody, though, having been told so much of it since I became a priest, the Lord knows I should. But could it have been himself who killed Tinville?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ballinger contradicted. ‘The feller I saw running away looked taller and thinner, although it was only a glance I had of him across the street and in poor light. I’ll call in at the hotel on my way to Headquarters and, if he’s still not there, I’ll pass the word that I want him found and brought in.’

‘He’ll not be hard to recognise with all that hair and whiskers,’ ‘Devlin’ commented. ‘Perhaps you’ll find him with the man who killed Tinville. Did the Inspector’s informer tell you where they’re hiding in the city?’

‘No, she only knew the bar they used,’ Ballinger replied. ‘That was where she met Tinville and got to know him.’ Taking his hat from the desk and shoving back his chair, he rose. ‘Well, I’ll not take up any more of your time, Father. I’ll be back to see Miss Gorr-Kauphin at three o’clock.’

‘That’ll be fine, lieutenant,’ the impostor assented, also standing up. ‘Will you be coming alone?’

‘Yes. I lost Sergeant Molloy last night, he was killed by the French Canadians, and Sergeant Damon’s handling another case.’

‘I wondered if you might be bringing the inspector with you?’

‘No. He left for Detroit this morning and took his informer with him. She said some more of the gang are there and he reckoned the one who escaped might have gone to join them. In fact, I saw them off just before I came here.’

‘Now that’s a pity,’ ‘Devlin’ stated. ‘I’ve heard so much about the ‘Mounties’ in my last parish that I’d like to meet one.’

‘Well I’ll tell you, Father,’ Ballinger said, lowering his voice and adopting a confidential manner. ‘I’m not sorry he’s gone in one way.’

‘Do you think he might not have been what he said?’ ‘Devlin’ asked, trying to sound solicitous rather than eager.

‘Oh he’d got the papers to prove that all right,’ Ballinger answered. ‘It’s just that I might have gone a bit farther than I should have in helping him, without asking my Chief if it was all right for me to do it. Well, anyway, it’s too late to worry about that now. I’ll be going along, sir.’

‘Let me see you to the door,’ the impostor suggested, closing the right hand drawer and walking around the desk.

Returning to the study after having escorted his unwelcome visitor to the front door of the presbytery, ‘Devlin’ was relieved and, to a certain extent, puzzled by the way in which the interview had gone. He was now confident that his strongest means of defence was still intact. Despite any misgivings which Ballinger might have had with regards to what he had seen and deduced in the basement of O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre, he clearly did not doubt even now that he was dealing with a priest and was willing to accept what he was told because of it. On the other hand, his comments about the events in which he had participated after leaving the theatre were not so straightforward. There had been inconsistencies which were not in accord with his reputation for being a very shrewd detective.

If Arnaud Cavallier had been more explicit when describing what had taken place in the entrance hall of the Streeterville Municipal Hospital, instead of having omitted much which did not show him in a good light, ‘Devlin’ would have realised that in all probability Ballinger was aware of the mysterious man and woman’s true status. Her behaviour had not been that of an ‘informer’. As it was, he could not decide whether the detective had believed they were what had been claimed. That the ‘inspector’ had pretended to be hunting French Canadian outlaws meant little. It did not even prove he was aware of the Metis’ involvement. Even if he should be a member of the British Secret Service, he might have offered a similar explanation for his presence on the assumption that he would receive more willing co-operation in searching for wanted fugitives than political agitators who had not committed any crimes. Whatever the truth might be, the last part of the conversation had suggested that Ballinger did not expect to see the couple again.

Being the kind of man he was, ‘Devlin’ became increasingly convinced that the detective had been fooled by the couple and did not suspect he had had any part in the murder of Colin Gorr-Kauphin. He found it far more palatable to accept Ballinger was not as competent as he had been led to believe than that he himself was the victim of deception. So he decided that, provided he made sure Vera Gorr-Kauphin knew the kind of answers to supply and acted in a suitably grief stricken fashion, they had nothing further to fear from the detective.

‘I’m sorry, folks,” Lieutenant Ballinger said, having looked up from the newspaper he was reading on hearing somebody arriving at the table he had selected in the small cafe where he had arranged to meet Belle Boyd and the Remittance Kid for lunch. The two people standing there were not his expected guests. ‘But I’m waiting for friends and we’ll be needing all the seats.’

The couple who were already drawing out chairs were of elderly appearance and apparently had recently suffered a bereavement.

White hair flowing from under a round topped, wide brimmed black hat combined with a pair of blue-tinted glasses and voluminous whiskers to conceal the majority of the man’s features. He had on an ancient black cloak-coat over a threadbare suit of the same hue, with an ear trumpet hanging around his neck. A shaking left hand encased in a woollen glove grasped a sturdy walking stick and his shoulders were bent as if the passing years weighed heavily upon him.

Even less could be seen of the woman’s face. It was hidden by the black veil suspended from a hat which would have been fashionable some thirty years earlier. The same applied to the sombre garments she wore, of the style referred to as widow’s weeds. Somewhat shorter than the man, the garments suggested she was on the dumpy side. She too had gloves to hide her marital status and held a fair-sized umbrella in what appeared to be a palsied grip.

‘What d’ye say, me bucko?’ the man quavered, in an Irish brogue redolent of a long life, lifting the ear trumpet.

‘The young gentleman asked us to sit down, Billy,’ the woman put in, before the detective could reply, her tones equally suggestive of antiquity if with a less definable accent.

‘I said that - !’ Ballinger began, raising his voice, as the couple started to take the seats.

‘Why, Rem,’ the woman interrupted quietly. ‘I do declare our company’s not welcome, for shame!’

‘That’s the worst of these colonial chappies, dear girl,’ the man went on, also sotto voce and, similarly, with a tone that was much younger although his had now lost its Irish accent. ‘They tend to forget invitations.’

‘Blast you both!’ Ballinger ejaculated, only just managing to hold his voice down to the same level and sinking back on to the chair from which he had been on the point of rising. ‘What the hell do you think this is, a masquerade ball?’

‘Do you think we’d take a prize if it was?’ the Rebel Spy inquired.

‘Actually, old boy, it was easier for Belle to look this o - !’ the Kid began, but the words were brought to a sudden halt as the Rebel Spy kicked him on the shin under the table. ‘Steady on, old thing, I’ve only got two of them. Can’t you take a joke?’

‘I thought breaking your leg would be a barrel of laughs,’ Belle answered, then became more serious. ‘We didn’t think it would be advisable for you to be seen meeting two people who are supposed to be on their way to Detroit, Ed. “Father Devlin” might be having you watched. How did the meeting go?’

‘Pretty well, I reckon,’ the detective replied, impressed by the effectiveness of his companions’ disguises. In spite of their voices, he found it difficult to believe the ‘elderly’ couple were the same people with whom he had spent several eventful hours the previous night. Nor was his respect diminished by the display they put on when a waitress arrived to take their orders. After the woman had left, he continued with a description of the interview at the presbytery and concluded, ‘I’m still not sure just where he stands, but my conscience doesn’t take to the way I’ve been lying to a priest.’

‘Are you sure he is one, Ed?’ Belle inquired.

‘He’d have to be to get away with it for this long,’ Ballinger answered. ‘I’ve sent a letter to his old parish’s chief of police asking about him, but it’ll be a week at least before I get an answer.’

‘A week may be too long,’ the Kid warned. ‘It’s a pity we can’t find a way of learning the truth more quickly.’

1 Presbytery: the Roman Catholic Church’s name for the parish priest’s official residence. J.T.E.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HE’LL KNOW I’M NOT DEVLIN

‘Come in!’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ called, dropping the letter to which he had just affixed a stamp into the right hand drawer of his desk.

‘Excuse me, “Father”,’ Mrs Galloway requested, darting an anything but approving glance at Vera Gorr-Kauphin - who was clad as was expected of a person in mourning and sitting on the chairs Lieutenant Edward Ballinger had occupied two days earlier - as she entered the presbytery’s study carrying an envelope. ‘But this just came for you.’

‘Who brought it?’ the impostor inquired, accepting the missive and noticing that it did not have a stamp, nor could he recognise the writing as he read the inscription.

‘He didn’t give me his name,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘Just said he was asked to fetch it from Green Bay and to apologise for not having got it here sooner, but the boat he came down on was held up for three days in Milwaukee with engine trouble.’

‘Has he waited for an answer?” ‘Devlin’ asked, starting to tear open the flap of the envelope.

Although some of the steamboats which plied Lake Michigan carried mail, the impostor knew that people with friends in the crew or travelling as passengers often sent letters in their care as being quicker than by the official method. It was apparent that somebody had arranged for a message to be delivered to the genuine Father Devlin in this fashion. So he realised that the man from Green Bay in all probability knew the dead priest and would expose him if they met.

‘He said he’d been told there wouldn’t be one when I asked,’ Mrs Galloway answered and swung her gaze to the actress. ‘Maybe it’ll be something private and confidential, “Father”?’

‘It could be,’ ‘Devlin’ admitted, having extracted and opened the single sheet of paper, speaking almost without thinking as he began to read the message on it.

‘Sure and I thought it might be!’ the housekeeper stated, still looking in a pointed manner at Vera. ‘So maybe the - lady - might like a cup of coffee in the sitting room while you’re reading it?’

‘Is it the news we’ve been expecting, “Father”?’ the actress put in, seeing the bogus priest stiffen and, concluding that he found something in the letter disturbing, having no intention of leaving until she heard what it might be.

‘What?’ ‘Devlin’ growled, looking up, his normally impassive face showing alarm.

‘I said is it the news we’ve been expecting?’ Vera repeated, aware that only a matter of considerable importance could have produced such a reaction.

‘Huh?’ the impostor grunted uncomprehendingly, then his features composed themselves into their normal hard mask and he nodded. ‘Oh yes. It is. That’ll be all, thank you, Mrs Galloway.’

‘Yes, “Father”,’ the housekeeper assented and, favouring the actress with a baleful glance and disapproving sniff, turned to leave.

‘What’s wrong?’ Vera demanded, as the door of the study closed with a bang, so curious that she made no complaint about the other woman’s lack of respect.

‘It’s from a blasted priest up in Green Bay!’ ‘Devlin’ gritted. Although he would normally have been amused by the housekeeper’s disapprobation of one she considered, by virtue of being a member of the theatrical profession, an unsuitable associate for a priest, he was not amused at that moment. The message he had just read was an effective barrier against levity. ‘He’s on his way to Chicago and says he hopes that I’ll be able to offer him accommodation while he’s here.’

‘Is that all?’ Vera began.

‘All?’ the impostor spat out, then made an obvious effort and held his voice down. ‘All, you say? God damn it, woman, he’ll know I’m not Devlin!’

‘So?’ Vera queried, thinking of the plans they had made and failing to see why her companion was in such a state of anxiety.

‘So he’ll be arriving tomorrow? ‘Devlin’ explained, finding it increasingly difficult to control his temper.

‘Tomorrow?’ the actress echoed in a startled squeak, being all too aware of what was causing the impostor’s consternation.

In spite of all that had happened on the night of the fire at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theatre, the couple had considered that their affairs were once more progressing in a satisfactory manner. Until the arrival of the letter, in fact, they had been regarding the incident as more beneficial than distressing.

Vera’s interview with Ballinger had strengthened ‘Devlin’s’ opinion that they had thrown him off the track completely. Following the impostor’s advice, she had used her knowledge of make-up to create the impression that she had been weeping copiously. She had also displayed more ‘grief’ over her brother’s death than she had shown concern during her meeting with the detective in her dressing-room. Continuing with her histrionics, she had ‘bravely’ visited the morgue and ‘suggested’ that Colin’s killer might be Raoul Fourmies with his hair cut short and beard removed. From all appearances, Ballinger had accepted her summation and suggestion that, as the artist and Marcel Tinville were close friends, they might have been involved together in an attempt to rob her.

Although they had renounced their Catholic upbringing on adopting the anarchist philosophy, Vera had agreed to a wake being held over her brother’s body. At ‘Devlin’s’ instigation, it was paid for by their local political supporters and it had presented him with an opportunity to explain something of the situation to the men who were financing the proposed Irish invasion of Canada. The result had been more successful than either he or the actress had dared to hope. Having notified each of the backers individually, they had obtained sufficient extra funds to cover the deficit caused by the fire and to pay the bonus. In addition, being unaware that the others had already contributed, the last man to be consulted had promised to supply the full sum personally. Unfortunately, he could not produce his donation until two days after Ernst Kramer had stipulated the payment must be made. Seeing an opportunity of adding to his and - as she was present when the offer was made - Vera’s acquisitions from the funds already collected, ‘Devlin’ had not mentioned the gift was unnecessary and too late, to be of use. Instead, he had declared that he would persuade the arms salesman to wait until the money was available. He had also prevented the man from mentioning the donation to the other backers by warning that a reference to the delay might cause them to withdraw their support. Seeing a chance to make political capital out of his generosity at a later date, the man had taken the ‘priest’s’ advice.

‘Tomorrow!’ ‘Devlin’ confirmed.

‘Can’t you get Fitzgerald’s money before he arrives?’ Vera suggested.

“There’s not a hope of it!’ ‘Devlin’ replied, anger suffusing his face as he duplicated the actress’s thoughts on the plans they had made. ‘Unless his boat’s late, that god-damned priest will be here by nightfall tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Damn it!’ Vera ejaculated bitterly, remembering that it had been arranged for Fitzgerald to fetch his contribution to the presbytery. ‘That means we won’t be able to wait and collect the money!’

‘Like hell we won’t!’ ‘Devlin’ contradicted, throwing the letter on to the desk and standing up.

‘But the priest will know you’re not Father Devlin as soon as he sees you,’ the actress protested.

‘We’ll make damned sure he doesn’t see me,’ the impostor countered.

‘Do you mean we’ll leave and make arrangements to meet Fitzgerald somewhere else?’ Vera asked. For a moment, she looked relieved. Then her frown returned and she pointed out dolefully, ‘But even if you’re not here when the priest comes, that old hag Galloway might say enough to give the game away. After all, you’re not like Devlin in looks or manner.’

‘He’s not coming here to be made suspicious,’ ‘Devlin’ said flatly.

‘You’re going to get rid of him the same way you did Devlin?’ Vera deduced and, while speaking, realised that the disposal of the body could not be accomplished as it had on the previous occasion. ‘But with Colin and Fourmies dead-’

‘I’m going to get rid of him all right,’ the impostor interrupted. ‘But not like last time.’

‘Then how - ?’ Vera commenced.

‘Come on,’ ‘Devlin’ commanded.

“What about the letter you’ve written?’ the actress inquired. ‘You’re not going to leave it where that woman can see it are you?”

‘I’ll put it in the mail box along the street,’ ‘Devlin’ answered, sharing Vera’s disinclination to let the housekeeper read to whom the letter was addressed. Opening the drawer, he removed and placed it in his jacket’s inside pocket. Then he put the message which had caused the consternation in its envelope and thrust it with the other. Pressing his left elbow against where the Smith & Wesson Russian Model revolver was tucked into his trouser waistband for greater concealment than was allowed by its holster, he went on, ‘Let’s get going.’

‘Where to?’ the actress demanded, as the bogus priest had not mentioned he intended to leave before the arrival of the letter.

‘We’re going to pay a visit to Phineas Branigan,’ ‘Devlin’ replied and the smile that twisted at his hard mouth was anything except priestly. ‘Isn’t it him and his buckoes who’ve been hired to protect us?’

‘They’re coming out!’ Belle Boyd informed Captain Patrick Reeder, rising from the chair on which she had been sitting by the window and watching the presbytery’s front door.

‘It’s lucky I haven’t taken anything off then, old thing,’ the Remittance Kid replied, having returned to the room a short while before and refrained from removing any of his disguise. ‘Get ready while I keep an eye on them and hope that they don’t take a cab.’

While reconnoitering prior to joining Lieutenant Ballinger for lunch the previous day, the Rebel Spy and the Englishman had taken advantage of a sign advertising that a furnished apartment was vacant in a building on the opposite side of the street to the presbytery. Taking it and, later, moving in their belongings, they had been able to keep a watch upon ‘Devlin’s’ comings and goings. The owner of the building believed them to be an elderly couple who had recently lost their only daughter and son-in-law in an accident. Nor had the bogus priest suspected that they were other than they appeared to be when they had followed him to and spoken with him at the wake for Colin Gorr-Kauphin. However, while they had seen him go into a room with his financial backers individually and had correctly guessed why, they had not found an opportunity to eavesdrop. Studying his reaction after each successive reappearance, they had deduced his efforts were meeting with success.

There’s one blessing about being diguised this way,’ Belle commented, as she placed the black hat on her realistic wig and adjusted the veil. ‘Nobody will be suspicious if they see an old lady like me peeking out of the window.’

‘Age has its advantages,’ the Kid admitted, checking his appearance in the mirror on the sidepiece. ‘But I hope the “Father’s” housekeeper doesn’t see us going out. This costume is somewhat distinctive and she might remember me.’

‘We’ll have to chance it,’ Belle pointed out, impaling her headdress and wig with a villainous-looking hatpin.

‘I always used to be fascinated when I saw my aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, do that,’ the Kid remarked. ‘I thought she was sticking the pin through her head and it wouldn’t have surprised me if she had been.’

‘Oh come on now!’ Belle objected with a smile. ‘Not even you would believe that.’

‘You don’t know my aunt, old thing,’ the Englishman protested, leading the way to the door. ‘It’s common knowledge in the family that she eats iron cannonballs so she can spit rust at politicians she doesn’t approve of.’

The levity was put aside as the Rebel Spy and the Kid left the apartment and went along the corridor to the front door. Reaching the street, they set off without crossing in the direction taken by Vera Gorr-Kauphin and ‘Devlin’. Their ability in such work showed in the way that, without losing their pose of age and drawing unwanted attention to themselves, they managed to reduce the distance which separated them from their quarry. While doing so, they were helped by the number of people who stopped the actress and the impostor to offer condolences over her brother’s death.

‘Hello!’ the Kid remarked, sotto voce, watching the couple halt by a mailbox while ‘Devlin’ took two letters from his jacket’s inside pocket. ‘I wonder who he’s been writing to, old thing?’

‘It’s not parochial business, I’ll bet,’ Belle answered. ‘He’s only posting one of them I see.’

‘So do I,’ the Kid went on, as the bogus priest dropped one of the letters into the box’s slot and returned the other to his pocket. ‘It mightn’t be important.’

‘On the other hand it might be,’ Belle replied and glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s almost time for the collection. If you’ll follow them, I’ll see if I can satisfy your morbid curiosity.’

‘Very well, old thing,’ the Kid assented. ‘If that’s the way you want it, I can’t argue. You out rank me.’

‘And we’re working in my country too,’ Belle supplemented. ‘Anyway, one of us will be less noticeable than two. I’ll see you when - or if - you get back, old thing,’

‘There are times I wish Sir Francis Drake had sunk Columbus along with the Spanish Armada,’ the Kid declared, then raised his voice and adopted his elderly Irishmans’ accent to go on, ‘All right then, Bridget, I’ll see you when I come home.’

‘And don’t you be coming back drunk, neither!’ Belle warned, speaking louder than she had up to that point.

Turning as the Englishman continued to follow Vera and ‘Devlin’, the Rebel Spy stood for a moment looking into the window of a store. Then she crossed the street and went along the sidewalk towards the mailbox. Without allowing her scrutiny to be noticeable, she sought for something to help her carry out the task to which she had committed herself.

‘As Lon^1 would say!’ Belle thought, looking at an object which lay on the sidewalk a short distance from the round topped metal box. ‘Ka-Dih’s^2 sure looking favourable on lil ole me.’

A casual observer might have been puzzled by the Rebel Spy’s enigmatic comment, as there did not appear to be anything worthy of warranting it. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered to her further satisfaction that a two-wheeled cart painted in red, white and blue horizontal stripes, and inscribed U.S.M. - the ‘M’ superimposed over the ‘U’ and ‘S’ - in gold letters, was approaching. Satisfied, she kicked a piece of orange peel discarded outside a shop which sold fruit and vegetables so that it slid towards the mailbox.

Slowing down, Belle allowed the cart to pass her. On reaching the box, the mailman’s horse came to a halt without needing any signal and he descended from his seat. Unlocking and opening the door of the box, he reached in to remove the few letters which had been deposited since the previous collection.

Timing her movements carefully, Belle arrived at exactly the right moment. Stepping on the piece of orange peel, she produced a perfectly simulated slip. Letting out an equally realistic wail of alarm, she charged into the mailman. Taken unawares, he was thrown off balance and the letters were sent flying from his hands.

‘Land’s sakes a-mercy!’ the Rebel Spy yelped in her ‘old’ voice, catching hold of the mail cart’s side apparently to prevent herself falling. ‘I’m sorry, sonny!”

‘That’s all right, granny!’ the mailman replied, although he had been on the point of uttering a more profane and less forgiving comment until he became aware of the sex and age of the person who had bumped into him. ‘There’s no harm done.’

‘Let me help you, sonny!’ Belle requested, as the man turned to retrieve the letters he had dropped.

‘That’s all right, la - !’ the mailman began.

‘I insist!’ Belle declared.

Ignoring the man’s second declaration that her assistance was unnecessary, the Rebel Spy bent to start picking up the letters. When suggesting she should try to discover to whom ‘Devlin’ had written, she had been aware of the difficulties she would be facing. In addition to having to make an opportunity to see the contents of the mailbox, she was not familiar with the impostor’s handwriting. She had been gambling upon there only being a few letters in the box and that she might see a name, or address even, she could connect with a known anarchist.

The first hope had materialised.

There was also a chance that the second had done so.

Belle doubted whether anybody else in the neighbourhood would have had cause to address a letter to, ‘The Governor, State Capital, OTTAWA, Southern Ontario, Canada’.

Much as the Rebel Spy would have liked to find out whether her assumption was correct, she was not granted an opportunity. Watching the letter being placed with the others in the mailman’s bag, she wondered what possible reason ‘Devlin’ could have for communicating with the Governor of Canada.

‘An English spy, you say?’ Phineas Branigan growled, looking from ‘Father Devlin’ to Vera Gorr-Kauphin and back. ‘But how the hell did he find out what we’re up to?’

‘My colleague didn’t say,’ the impostor replied, glancing around the small office at the rear of the saloon owned by the other man. ‘All he learned was that one is on his way from Canada and would be arriving tomorrow some time on the General Sheridan,’

‘Cap’n McKinnon’s boat, huh?’ Branigan injected.

‘I don’t know about that,’ ‘Devlin’ said shortly, inadvertently making a potentially incautious comment. It was most unlikely that a priest whose previous parish had been in the port of Green Bay would not have heard of Captain McKinnon by reputation if not personally. ‘All my colleague told me was that he would be arriving on the General Sheridan and is travelling under the name of “Father Henri Duchamp”.’

‘ “Father” - !’ Branigan repeated, too engrossed in the information he had just received to spare a thought for the impostor’s lack of knowledge where the captain of the General Sheridan was concerned. ‘Do you mean the spalpeen’ll be travelling as a priest?’

‘That he will, the English heathen!’ ‘Devlin’ confirmed, exuding a similar if less genuine righteous indignation.

‘It will make identifying him easy,’ Vera put in. ‘There aren’t likely to be all that many priests on board.’

‘You’re right about that, ma’am,’ Branigan admitted. ‘What do you want done about him, “Father” ?’

‘I’d say that’s up to you,’ the impostor replied. ‘But I wouldn’t be too hard on anybody for anything they did to a spy who is sacrilegious enough to dress as a priest.’

‘There’ll be no scaring him off,’ Branigan warned. ‘He’ll have to be killed.’

‘As you say, he’ll have to be killed,’ ‘Devlin’ agreed. ‘But make sure that nobody sees it happen.’

‘Count on me for that!’ Branigan declared. ‘I’ll have him met when the boat docks and brought somewhere it’ll be safe to get rid of him.’

‘Like I said, that’s up to you,’ ‘Devlin’ answered. ‘It’s a pity we don’t know what time the boat will be arriving. That would save your men hanging around and maybe being recognised, then remembered by the police if anything goes wrong.’

‘There’s one thing you can count on Cap’n McKinnon for,’ Branigan stated, again failing to draw any conclusion from the ‘priest’s’ surprising lack of knowledge. ‘He’s never more than an hour late coming in. By one o’clock tomorrow, we’ll have that English spalpeen and make him sorry he got sent to spy on us. I hear you got the extra money, “Father”.’

‘I did,’ ‘Devlin’ confirmed, hoping that the reference was not to the donation promised by the wealthy businessman, Fitzgerald.

‘Sure and I knew they’d fork out when you asked them,’ Branigan stated with a grin. ‘The word’d been passed it’d be an unlucky day for somebody if you didn’t get the money. How soon can we have the guns?’

‘I’m completing the payment tonight and they’ll be ready tomorrow.’

‘Where’ll they be?’

‘I haven’t been told yet. That’s not the way arms dealers do business.”

‘Doesn’t he trust you?’ Branigan growled.

‘His kind don’t trust anybody’ ‘Devlin’ pointed out, without mentioning he had not worn his priest’s raiment when visiting Kramer. ‘I’ll tell you where they can be collected after you’ve seen to that English spy.’

‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ the actress remarked in tones of grudging admiration, as she and the impostor were walking along the alley towards the front of Branigan’s saloon at the conclusion of the meeting. They had used the side entrance to his office to avoid attracting attention by going in via the front door and bar room. ‘I couldn’t imagine how you’d persuade them to kill a priest.’

‘They’ll probably suffer eternal damnation for it,’ ‘Devlin’ answered and his face took on the savagely bitter, yet somehow exultant, lines Vera had noticed while he was writing the letter to the Governor of Canada betraying the proposed Irish invasion he had helped to organise.3 ‘And I hope they do. Every last god-damned priest-ridden one of the bastards.’

Wondering what had caused her companion’s bitter hatred for his own people and the Catholic faith in general, Vera was too wise to try and satisfy her curiosity. Instead, she asked about their future plans. Engrossed in discussing the matter, they turned at the end of the alley and ‘Devlin’ bumped into a man who was approaching along the sidewalk. There appeared to be a good reason for the accident. Tall, wearing a black hat with a V-shaped groove across its crown, wrapped in a black cloak-coat, the brown bearded man had on dark glasses and was employing the thick stick in his left hand as if he was blind, or very close to it. For a moment, he and the impostor were entangled. Then, mumbling an apology, he went on with his stick tapping and feeling the way.

‘Awkward bastard!’ ‘Devlin’ snarled, as he and Vera resumed their briefly interrupted journey. ‘They shouldn’t let the likes of him on the streets.”

If the impostor had been able to watch as the man turned into the alley at the other end of the saloon, he would have been more than just annoyed over the collision.

Having followed the couple from the presbytery, the Remittance Kid had gambled upon them being with Branigan for long enough to let him make a few changes to his appearance which would be necessary if he was to carry out the next part of his plans. Going around to the back of the building, he had found a place which offered him the necessary privacy. First he had pressed the groove into the top of his hat, which had been specially made to permit such treatment. Then he had exchanged the white wig and beard for a set of brown whiskers he had brought along to be used if such a need arose. He had next replaced the tinted glasses with a much darker pair. Lastly, he had buttoned the cloak-coat and, by straightening up, altered his height slightly and removed the suggestion of extreme age.

With his appearance so altered that he could come to close quarters without being recognised as the ‘old’ man from the wake, the Kid had taken up a position at the front of the saloon from which he could see the side entrance reflected in the window of a store at the opposite side of the street. When the actress and ‘Devlin’ came out, he had advanced with such careful timing that he engineered the collision. Despite the brief contact between them, he had been successful in picking the impostor’s inside jacket pocket. Slipping the letter he had acquired into his own jacket’s inside pocket, he walked on with a feeling that the risk he had taken had been worthwhile.

1 ‘Lon’: an abbreviation of Loncey Dalton, the Christian names of the Ysabel Kid; see Footnote 1, CHAPTER SIX. J.T.E.

2 ‘Ka-Dih’ : the Comanche Indian’s name for their ‘Great Spirit’. J.T.E.

3 In Chapter Six of ON REMITTANCE - the as yet unpublished biography of Major General Sir Patrick Reeder, K.C.B., V.C., D.S.O., M.C. and Bar - the Remittance Kid says the man posing as Father Mattlew Devlin was obsessed with hatred for the Irish - his own people - over what he considered to have been completely unjustified ostracism and hostility after he was unfrocked by the Catholic Church for gross misconduct. The intention of the betrayal was to cause what he hoped would be a bloody repulse of the invasion. In turn this would create animosity between Great Britain and the United States. Even if open war between the two countries did not happen, the incident was likely to produce a hardening of the British attitude towards Ireland and, as ‘Devlin’ wanted for personal as well as anarchistic reasons, prolong the sufferings of the Irish. J.T.E.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

YOU’RE GOING TO KILL US

‘Father Duchamp?’ Phineas Branigan inquired, walking up to the only passenger to have left the newly arrived steamboat who was suitably dressed to be the person he had been sent to meet and kill.

‘That is my name,’ admitted the man ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ had claimed was an English spy, speaking with a noticeable French accent. ‘And what can I do for you, my son?’

Upholding his reputation for greater punctuality than any of his competitors, Captain Alexander McKinnon had brought the General Sheridan to its dock in Chicago at a quarter after twelve.

Having arrived and taken up a point of vantage shortly before noon, Branigan had watched the passengers disembarking. As there had been no other members of the clergy coming ashore, he had had no difficulty in making his selection. What was more, even if there had been others, he would still have felt sure he was making the correct choice.

Tall and several years short of middle age, the priest was tanned, good looking and sported a neatly trimmed moustache and chin beard of Gallic appearance. Like many of the younger members of the priesthood, he was following the growing habit of travelling in a black soft felt hat with an indented crown, black suit and reversed white collar instead of a cassock. Despite being burdened with a suitcase in each hand, he walked with an athletic, almost military erectness and stride.

Although Branigan had felt he was fortunate that his potential victim was one of the last passengers to come along the gangplank, he found less satisfaction in seeing the priest was escorting a woman. Of something under middle height and attired for mourning, her features were concealed by the veil of the black hat securely pinned to her grey hair. There was an ear trumpet suspended around her neck, adding to the suggestion that she was much older than her companion. She was carrying a vanity bag and a bulky furled umbrella, but had no other baggage in her possession. As the cases carried by the priest were not a pair, one being considerably older and more battered than the other, it seemed likely he was helping her by bringing it ashore.

‘ “Father Devlin” sent me to take you to him,’ Branigan replied.

‘That’s very considerate of him,’ Father Duchamp declared. ‘Madam Ramel and I are very grateful.’

‘Madam Ramel?’ Branigan queried, although he could guess who was meant.

‘She has come to see Father Devlin on a matter of business,’ the priest explained, without lowering his voice. ‘She was one of his parishioners in Green Bay, you see. And, as she is somewhat hard of hearing, speaks little English and has never before been in such a large city, her family have asked me to ensure she arrives safely.’

‘But “Father Devlin” didn’t say anything about her - !’ Branigan began, finding the news disconcerting.

‘What’s he saying, what’s he saying?’ the woman demanded in French, her voice expressing the querulous asperity which came with age, snapping the ear trumpet into use.

‘That he has been sent to meet us by Pere Mathieu’ the priest answered, employing the same language. Then he reverted to English and continued, ‘I didn’t know she would be coming when I wrote to Father Devlin, so I couldn’t tell him.’

‘I reckon not,’ Branigan conceded, knowing sufficient French to have understood what had passed between the couple, but deciding the reference to the reason why ‘Father Devlin’ was not aware of the woman’s pending arrival was nothing more than an example of fast thinking on the part of the English spy.

‘Now what’s he saying?’ the woman demanded, still plying her ear trumpet vigorously. Without troubling to discover whether Branigan could speak French, she went on, ‘I don’t like the look of him. He’s got an ugly face and might be the twin brother of that nasty M’sieur O’Ryan in Green Bay.’

‘He’s a friend of Pere Mathieu, Madam Ramel!’ the priest answered, with a tone of patience underlaid with annoyance. Then he addressed the other man, ‘I hope you don’t speak French, my son?’

‘I don’t,’ Branigan lied, turning his scowling face from the woman.

‘Shall we go then?’ the priest suggested. ‘I’m sorry to have to do this to Father Devlin. Is it far to his parish?’

‘A fair way,’ Branigan replied, starting to turn away. ‘I’ve brought a coach to take you there.’

‘Isn’t he going to carry our bags?’ Madam Ramel asked shrilly. ‘Nasty, common man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t M’sieur O’Ryan’s brother.’

‘Let me take the bags, Father,’ Branigan offered, swinging back and holding out his hands.

‘Thank you, my son,’ the priest assented, surrendering the cases.

Darting another scowl at Madam Ramel, Branigan set off to where he had left Shamus O’Toole with a rockaway coach. As he walked, he told himself that he had no other choice but take the woman with them. If he tried to do otherwise, the English spy could become suspicious and might refuse to accompany him. On the other hand, once taken, she could not be allowed to live. Not only would she have seen far too much, she could describe him to the police as the person who had separated her from the ‘priest’. For a moment, although he had not the slightest qualms on the matter, he wondered how his men would react to learning she must be killed. Knowing them, he doubted whether they would raise any protests. Each had already taken life on at least one occasion and were unlikely to be deterred when dealing with an unpleasant old woman who was also, to their insular way of thinking, a foreigner.

On reaching the coach, Branigan scowled prohibitively as he saw O’Toole darting a startled look and was clearly about to ask a question. Then, realising such a reaction was natural, he gave a hurried explanation of the woman’s presence. There was a patrolman ambling along the waterfront in their direction and he wanted his passengers inside the vehicle before they could be subjected to a closer scrutiny. Taking a hint from his employer’s attitude, O’Toole accepted the reason he had been given for the old woman being brought from the boat and did not prolong the conversation.

Handing the cases to the burly man, who was still showing signs ‘of being disconcerted by the unanticipated turn of events, Branigan opened the coach door. While the couple were entering and taking the seats which faced forward, he slipped his right hand into the outside pocket of his jacket and drew to fully cocked the hammer of the Remington Double Deringer it held. Still holding the weapon ready for use, he followed them and sat opposite the English spy. Having placed the two cases on the box, O’Toole climbed ponderously after them. Gathering up the reins, he set the two-horse team into motion.

Once the journey commenced, there was little conversation except for one or the other man to make a noncommittal response to Madam Ramel’s comments about the bumpiness of the road and what she considered were O’Toole’s inadequacies as a driver. Beyond thinking that her long suffering family might not be too deeply grieved when hearing of her unexplained and mysterious disappearance, Branigan paid no attention to her. Instead, he concentrated upon watching for the first sign suggesting the English spy was growing alarmed or suspicious.

Although there was neither reaction as the coach continued along the waterfront, Branigan did not think this was out of the ordinary. He considered it was highly unlikely that either of his victims would have sufficient knowledge of Chicago’s geography to realise they were not travelling in the direction of ‘Father Devlin’s’ parish. Of course when they arrived at their destination, which it would be instantly obvious was not a presbytery, the spy was certain to guess something was wrong. However, Branigan had thought up an excuse to persuade the passengers to leave the vehicle. If it failed, he was covering the other man with his Remington and at that range could not miss. Nor, once he had fired, did he anticipate any difficulty in dealing with the woman.

‘I hadn’t realised that Father Devlin’s parish was this close to the waterfront,’ the man dressed as a priest remarked, glancing out of the side window at the row of warehouses they were passing.

‘It’s not too close,’ Branigan replied, being uncertain whether the spy had checked on the location. ‘But he got called to a warehouse down here. Some of the workers have had a bad accident and himself, being the good and kind man he is, went straight away to find out if he could do anything. He sent me to fetch you and asked if you’d go in and lend a hand if he wasn’t through when we got there.’

‘Of course I will,’ the man who might be an English spy promised.

Satisfied that his victim had accepted the explanation, Branigan lapsed into silence. Nor did the other man make further comment as the coach passed through a progressively poorer and less occupied area. Glancing through the rear window shortly after the brief conversation, Branigan saw a pantechnicon furniture removal van following at a distance. However, as O’Toole brought the rockaway to a halt outside their destination, it turned and disappeared from view along a side street.

‘Here we are, Father,’ Branigan announced, opening the door and, retaining his hold on the butt of the Remington, jumping down. ‘It looks like “Father Devlin’s” inside.’

‘Where are you going?’ Madam Ramel demanded, as the priest followed their guide from the vehicle.

‘Inside to help Pere Mathieu’ Father Duchamp replied, apparently failing to draw any conclusions from the deserted appearance of the warehouse. It was run down, but not derelict. Neither was there any sign of the ambulance which might have been expected at the scene of a serious accident. ‘Wait there, please.’

‘Certainly not!’ the woman contradicted cantankerously, doing what Branigan had hoped and saving him from having to think up a reason for taking her with them. Gathering up her umbrella, but leaving the vanity bag, she rose and continued, ‘I don’t trust these big city men. I’ve heard what they’re like when they get a defenceless woman with them. Help me down, man, where’re your manners?’

‘Here, ma’am!’ Branigan said, the last words having been directed at him in spite of his claim not to understand French. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

‘I should think so, too!’ the woman squawked. Having no intention of releasing his weapon at such a crucial moment, Branigan reached with his left hand only to assist her. In spite of his support, she stumbled as she alighted and her empty right hand flew up to clutch at her hat as she protested, ‘You clumsy lout - !’

‘Go through the small door there, Father,’ Branigan requested, ignoring the woman and turning to point to the main entrance of the warehouse.

‘Certainly,’ the priest replied and set off without hesitation followed by the still complaining woman.

Throwing a look and satisfied nod to O’Toole, who was descending from the coach’s box, Branigan slipped the Remington from his pocket. He gave no thought to the complete lack of concern or caution being shown by a man he believed was an English spy sent to investigate the activities of Irish Republican supporters. Instead, he congratulated himself upon the ease with which he had lured his victim into the trap. He also considered that, as he had not anticipated the woman’s presence, he had been fortunate in the way he had arranged for the spy to be received.

‘You’ll be finding “Father Devlin” through the back there, Father,’ Branigan directed, having followed the couple through the small door which offered admittance to the building without needing to open the whole of the main entrance and, after glancing to where O’Toole was remaining to keep watch by the coach, closing it behind them.

Still displaying no evidence of suspicion, the man in the black suit started to walk along the alley between stacks of boxes and tarpaulin-covered piles of goods. Muttering and grumbling semi audibly, the woman stalked by his side. However, as they entered a small clear area in the middle of the large room, they were brought to a halt. Two burly, well dressed, if somewhat flashily, hard-faced men emerged from behind boxes in front of them and a third, slightly slimmer but with rat-like features slid from the top of a tarpaulin draped mound to alight alongside Madam Ramel. Although none of them was holding a weapon, each had a revolver thrust into his trouser waistband. What was more, while they all were clearly puzzled by the woman’s presence, they showed no sign of allowing themselves to be swayed from their purpose because she was there.

‘One move and your wife’s a widow, you English bastard!’ Branigan warned, thrusting his Remington’s twin superposed barrels against the centre of the priest’s back.

‘Mother of God!’ the man in the black suit gasped in French. ‘What’s this?’

‘We know who you are and what you’ve come for!’ Branigan declared, surprised by the response as he had felt sure any reply startled from the spy would be made in English. Reaching with his left hand, he felt for and failed to find any weapons on the other man’s person. Shoving him forward a few steps, he growled, ‘So it’s no use you trying - ’

‘How dare you treat the Father like that?’ Madam Ramel protested, making as if to move forward and attack Branigan as her companion halted and turned. ‘I’ll - ’

‘Grab the old besom, Barber!’ Branigan growled.

‘That I will!’ the smallest of the men replied, catching hold of the woman’s left arm and right shoulder. ‘But why in God’s name did you bring her here?’

‘I didn’t have no other choice!’ Branigan snarled, stepping forward and thrusting the Remington into the priest’s stomach. ‘You’re going to wish you’d never come to spy on us, you English son-of-a-bitch.’

‘M’sieur!’ the victim gasped and his French accent became more pronounced. ‘You’re making a terrible mist -’

‘Like hell I am!’ Branigan answered, lashing the back of his left hand across the brown bearded face.

‘Sacrilege!’ Madam Ramel shrieked, as Father Duchamp was knocked backwards into the hands of the waiting men with blood starting to run from the corner of his mouth. ‘You’ll all go to hell for attacking a priest.’

‘Shut your mouth, you old witch!’ Barber ordered, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the woman speaking English. ‘Or you’ll get some of the same and worse.’

‘Holy mother!’ the woman croaked, staring from one man to the others in turn. ‘I don’t know why you should, but you’re going to kill us!’

Even as Madam Ramel was speaking, the small door in the main entrance was thrown open and O’Toole came through hurriedly.

‘Thineas!” the burly man bellowed, closing and locking the door. ‘Ballinger and his men are coming!’

‘Well, that’s that,’ ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ remarked, looking through the grime-covered window of the deserted and derelict building opposite the warehouse into which - although the rockaway coach had hidden them from his view - Branigan had taken his victims. ‘It’s a pity we won’t be around when they find out they’ve murdered a real priest. I’d like to be the one who takes their confessions.’

‘I wonder who the old woman was?’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin asked, having seen Madam Ramel through the coach’s window when it drew up.

‘I don’t know, or care,’ the impostor stated. ‘It’ll make things all the worse for them when the truth comes out.’

Having been kept busy all the previous afternoon gathering the promised donations to complete the purchase of the arms, ‘Devlin’ had not discovered the letter from Father Henri Duchamp was missing until he had been changing before going to visit Ernst Kramer. The idea that it might have been stolen had not occurred to him. Neither had he informed the actress of the loss. He had felt sure that, even if somebody had found it, the sight of his name and address would cause it to be returned to the presbytery.

On receipt of the balance of payment and bonus, Kramer had explained where and how the firearms and ammunition would be handed over. Having given the address from which they could be collected the following afternoon, he had torn a ten dollar bill in half and handed over one portion to serve as a means of identification between his men and those who went to pick them up.

Turning his attention to the second consignment, Kramer had promised everything would be as arranged and supplied half of another ten dollar bill as an aid to recognition. He had not been told that it was to be Vera and the impostor who would accept and accompany the arms which would await onwards transportation at Stokeley, Montana. Nor had any of them referred to the incident of the Agar ‘Coffee-Mill’ gun. In fact, they had parted on amicable terms and with mutual - if only sincere on one side - expressions of the hope that they could do further business in the future.

In spite of possessing all the information required to supply the Irish contingent with their arms, ‘Devlin’ had not passed it on. He had told Branigan the previous day that he would do so after the ‘English spy’ was removed so that, if anything should go wrong, the weapons would not be lost. Having learned where the assassination was to be carried out, he and the actress - dressed in attire suitable for the area - had found a hiding place from which they could ensure that all went well.

The precaution proved to be justified and worthwhile!

‘Look!’ Vera gasped, her attention diverted by noticing OToole staring along the street and then dashing behind the coach towards the warehouse’s door.

‘It’s Ballinger!’ the impostor snarled, recognising the foremost of the half a dozen armed men who were coming from the side street into which the pantechnicon had turned a short while before. ‘He must know - !’

‘But how could he?’ the actress gasped.

‘How the hell do I know?’ ‘Devlin’ spat back furiously and wondering if perhaps the letter had reached the detective, arousing his suspicions. ‘One thing’s for sure. I’m not staying around to try to find out.’

‘What are you doing?’ Vera demanded, watching the impostor take a piece of paper with an address written on it and a half of a ten dollar bill from his pocket.

‘They’ll not be needing these, I’m thinking, even if I could get them to them,’ ‘Devlin’ answered, tearing both items into pieces and dropping them. ‘Come on. We’re through here and I mean to be on the train travelling west with Cavallier before Ballinger can lay hands on me.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT’S NOT OVER YET

Hearing Shamus O’Toole’s announcement, Belle Boyd realised that the time was at hand for her to dispense with being ‘Madam Ramel’. Nor was she sorry that she could stop playing the demanding and exacting role. Walking with knees bent to reduce her height by some three inches and add to the suggestion of dumpiness was anything but easy. She also appreciated that the lives of Captain Patrick Reader and herself were dependent upon their own efforts until Lieutenant Edward Ballinger and his men arrived to support them. Having anticipated that the need to do so might arise, they had made preparations which would help them cope if it happened. What she had learned over the past couple of days warned her that, the precautions notwithstanding, their position was anything but a sinecure.

Accompanied by Sergeant Damon and dressed in an appropriate fashion, the Rebel Spy and the Remittance Kid had spent some time in the vicinity of Phineas Branigan’s saloon. The purpose of their reconnaisance had been to learn as much as they could about the proprietor and his ‘buckoes’. They had guessed that ‘Father Matthew Devlin’s’ visit was to enlist aid, by some means which neither could envisage, in disposing of what he believed was a threat to expose him as an impostor, and they wanted to find out what they would be up against. From what Damon had told them, the men selected by Branigan as his assistants were the most ruthless he hired. All were suspected of having been involved in more than one killing. So they would not hesitate to kill again, even though one of the victims appeared to be a harmless, if obnoxious, old woman.

Following the example he had set from the beginning of their acquaintance, Ballinger had continued to give the couple his co-operation. When the Kid had suggested a way in which they might obtain confirmation of their suspicions regarding ‘Devlin’, while they were having lunch on the day after the fire, the detective had declared that he could help. Belle had soon acknowledged that the scheme was only possible by making use of his specialised knowledge and contacts.

It had been Ballinger who made the arrangements for ‘Madam Ramel’ and ‘Father Henri Duchamp’ to arrive in the appropriate fashion by calling upon the assistance of a friend, Lieutenant Charles Goldsmith of the Chicago Police Department’s Lake Michigan Patrol Division. Dressed in ordinary clothes and with their disguises in the two suitcases, the couple had been taken on Goldsmith’s steam launch to intercept the General Sheridan out of sight of the dock. Calling for the return of a favour, the lieutenant had persuaded Captain McKinnon to let them aboard without asking questions and to supply them with the privacy they would require while making the alterations to their appearances.

When meeting with Belle, the Kid and Ballinger prior to taking the couple to meet the steamboat, Goldsmith had inadvertently provided them with a new development. He had replied to the Englishman’s apology for taking up so much of his time by saying he had only one case and it did not seem likely to be successful. The body of an elderly man had been recovered, after its accidental discovery by two anglers, from a bay about a mile to the east of the city. Death had been caused by a knife thrust to the heart, after which the body had been stripped, wrapped in sacking, weighed with chains and dumped. There was only one possible clue to identifying the victim. A crucifix ring had either been ignored or overlooked by the murderer. On being removed by the medical examiner, an examination had disclosed what remained of an inscription around the inside. Even with the aid of the most powerful magnifying glass available, only the words, ‘For my son’, followed by the letters, ‘M, at, v,’ could be deciphered. As the doctor had estimated the body had been in the lake for about the same length of time that ‘Father Matthew Devlin’ had held office in his parish, the trio had felt they could complete the inscription. They had also known that their only way of proving their suppositions was to go through with the scheme.

Having seen his friends off in the launch, Ballinger had joined five selected members of his squad aboard a furniture removal company’s pantechnicon which had been hired for the purpose. The hope that ‘Devlin’ himself would be at the dock did not materialise. So, following Branigan’s coach at a distance, they had turned aside when certain it had reached its destination. When out of sight from the warehouse, they had set off on foot to effect the rescue.

Aware of the consequences of delay, Belle allowed the hatpin which she had removed while clutching at her headdress on leaving the coach to slip from her sleeve into her right hand. As she did so, she straightened her knees quickly. Feeling the ‘old’ woman’s height suddenly and inexplicably increasing, as she moved with a rapidity he would not have thought possible for one of her ‘age’, Barber inadvertently slackened his hold on her. Instantly, Belle’s right arm rose and thrust over her shoulder. The point of the pin drove into the man’s cheek, bringing a yell of pain. Twisting free from his grasp, she sent her hand downwards - leaving the pin stuck in him - to disappear into the umbrella.

Even without waiting to see how Belle responded to O’Toole’s arrival, being equally cognisant of the peril it presented and confident that she would behave in her usual competent manner, the Kid gave attention to ensuring his own salvation. His captors had grasped him by the wrists with both hands and were starting to twist at his arms when O’Toole entered. The warning he delivered caused them to pause.

Shifting his weight on to his slightly bent right leg, the Kid raised his left foot until the thigh was parallel to the ground. Allowing the tension on his arms to help retain his equilibrium, he snapped the left in a diagonal motion which delivered the edge of his boot against the shin of the man on that side. The sudden, unexpected pain made the recipient of the kick release him and stumble away. Instantly, he returned the foot to the floor and, shifting his balance to it, launched a similar and even more effective attack with the other leg. A howl of agony burst from the second ‘bucko’ as the foot met and snapped his knee cap, causing him to let loose. He dropped with his hands clutching the injured limb.

Having looked around on hearing O’Toole’s news, Branigan snapped his head to the front in response to the commotion. Giving a furious obscenity, he started to line the Remington Double Deringer in the Kid’s direction. Then other sounds diverted his attention to his left. What he saw warned him that he might be facing just as serious a threat from that quarter.

Although hurt and caught unawares, Barber had recovered his wits quickly. His right hand flew to clutch at and jerk the hatpin from his cheek, but the left shot forward. Grabbing his assailant by the bun of her grey ‘hair’, he jerked at it. To his amazement, it and the hat came away in his grasp. The effort he had put into the pull, meeting with none of the resistance he had anticipated, caused him to stagger back a few steps and trip. Going down, he landed on his rump with enough force to wind him.

The removal of Belle’s wig, hat and veil exposed her short cropped black hair and beautiful features to Branigan’s astounded gaze. Realising that he was not dealing with an ordinary woman, he found himself uncertain as to whether he should devote his attention to her or to the English spy. Tough and ruthless as he undoubtedly was, he had never been a practising gun fighter. Nor did he comprehend just how swiftly one trained in such techniques could respond.

Belle had had such training and was highly competent.

Grasping the butt of the Kid’s Webley R.I.C. revolver, the girl jerked free the adhesive tape which had held it attached to her disguised parasol’s handle. Instead of wasting time bringing the weapon into view, she swung it and the parasol into alignment. Thumb cocking the hammer, she squeezed the trigger. Flame lanced through and ignited the bulky umbrella canopy and a bullet tore into Branigan’s chest while his Remington was still vacillating between her and the Englishman. Knocked backwards, the little firearm flying from his fingers, he measured his length on the floor.

Springing forward as rapidly as the pain-throbbing shin would permit, the Kid’s first victim tried to tackle him. Catching the man’s right wrist in both hands, he swivelled and brought off a wrestling throw which reminded Belle of a technique she had seen employed by Dusty Fog.1 Passing over the Englishman’s shoulder, the ‘bucko’ descended with all his weight, and rendered his injured companion unconscious. Nor was he in a much better condition, due to the impact of the fall, as the Kid stepped forward and, jerking the revolver from his waistband, covered Barber with it.

Pulling out the Webley, Belle tossed aside her smouldering disguised parasol. She recocked the hammer and, raising it in both hands, aimed at O’Toole as he lumbered towards them. When he continued to advance and began to drag out his revolver, after her second command for him to halt, she sent a bullet which broke his right leg and compelled him to comply.

By the time Ballinger and his men broke open the small door in the main entrance, they found that the couple they had rushed to rescue already had the situation under control. That Belle and the Kid had been able to do so was made possible because their ability at disguise and superb acting had lulled their would-be killers into a sense of false security which allowed them to bring their bare hand fighting skills into use.

‘ “Devlin”, or whatever his real name might be, and the actress have flown the coop,’ Ballinger said, rejoining the Rebel Spy and the Englishman in the room they had rented opposite the presbytery shortly after nightfall. ‘But the men who were backing them have decided to call off the invasion.’

‘So you managed to persuade them, old boy?’ the Kid asked, it having been agreed that the detective should handle the remaining aspects of the affair without Belle or himself becoming further involved.

‘They saw it my way,’ Ballinger corrected. ‘When I showed them that letter you sent to “Devlin” and took back, then told what he’d tricked Branigan into doing, they figured it was for the best. None of them would want it known they’d been taken in by an impostor who’d murdered one priest and tried to have another killed. Or that they’d let themselves be cheated out of money that was supposed to buy guns for their army.’

‘They didn’t get the arms?’ Belle inquired.

‘No,’ Ballinger replied, sounding equally relieved. ‘It seems that he said he’d made the deal, but they don’t know who with, and he was supposed to tell Branigan where to collect them. As far as the Barber or the other three know, he never passed the word. There’s only one thing, though. Papa Champlain reckoned they’d be starting the invasion from out in Montana, didn’t he?’

‘He said Tinville told him it was to be from Stokeley,’ Belle verified.

‘Fitzgerald told me they were planning to go in across the narrows at Sault Ste. Marie,’ Ballinger explained. ‘In fact, I went with him to send a telegraph to the man in command up there telling him to disband the army and come back.’

‘Then it’s not over yet!’ Belle warned grimly.

‘You mean that they’ll start organising again?’ asked the Kid.

‘Perhaps, but it will take time and before they can, something may happen to change their minds,’ Belle replied.2 ‘I think that their invasion was supposed to coincide with an uprising of the Metis organised by Cavallier and it’s they who’ll have arms delivered to Stokeley.’

‘It’s possible,’ the Remittance Kid conceded. ‘Anyway, I think we should go up there and see whether you’re right or not, dear girl.’

‘Actually, dear boy,’ the Rebel Spy replied. ‘I was just going to suggest that myself.’

1 Captain Patrick Reeder had not visited Japan at the period of this narrative. The unarmed combat techniques he employed were based upon a pentjak-silat system he had been taught while living in the East Indies. J.T.E.

2 The invasion never took place. On being informed of Father Matthew Devlin’s’ letter of betrayal to the Governor of Canada, Colonel George W. French, q.v. notified General Philo Handiman, with whom he maintained a good relationship. Visiting several prominent politicians who were involved, the General used the letter to show them that they were being manipulated by the anarchists. In turn, they persuaded their followers that the scheme was ill-advised and it was abandoned. J.T.E.

APPENDIX ONE

Wanting a son and learning that his wife, Electra, could not have any more children, Vincent Charles Boyd had given his only daughter, Belle,1 a thorough training in several subjects not normally regarded as being necessary for a wealthy Southron girl’s upbringing. At seventeen, she could ride - astride or side-saddle - as well as any of her male neighbours, men who were to help provide the Confederate States with its superlative cavalry. In addition, she was a skilled performer with an epee de combat or saber, an excellent shot with any kind of firearm and an expert at savate, the French foot and fist boxing. All of which were soon to be very useful for her.

Shortly before the commencement of the War Between the States, a mob of pro-Union supporters had stormed the Boyd plantation. Before they were driven off by the family’s Negro servants, they had murdered Belle’s parents and set fire to her home. She was wounded in the fighting and, on recovering, joined her cousin, Rose Greenhow,3 who was operating a successful spy ring. Wanting to find the leaders of the mob, Belle had not been content to remain in one place. Instead, she had taken the dangerous task of delivering other agents’ information to the Confederate authorities. Adding an ability at disguise and dialects to her accomplishments, she had gained such proficiency that she won the sobriquet, the Rebel Spy. She also graduated to handling more important and risky assignments. On two she had worked with Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog^4 and a third brought her first contact with the Ysabel Kid.5 However she had not concluded her quest for the murderers of her parents until shortly after the War ended.6

While the ‘Yankees’ might have had reason to hate the Rebel Spy when she was engaged in her duties against them, she had not given them cause to feel other than gratitude when peace returned. On signing the oath of allegiance to the Union, she had been enrolled in the United States Secret Service. Despite all the trouble she had given that organisation during the War, she served it loyally and with efficiency. Her participation in thwarting a plot to assassinate President Ulysses S. Grant had prevented friction, possibly another war, between the Northern and Southern States.7 Assisted by Martha ‘Calamity Jane’ Canary, q. v., and the lady outlaw, Belle Starr, she had brought to an end the reign of terror created by a murderous gang of female outlaws. 8With the aid of General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin’s floating outfit, she had broken up the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom.9 After having helped to avert diplomatic difficulties with the Republic of Haiti in the same company,10 she had once more joined forces with Belle Starr when involved in the efforts of the European master criminal, Octavius Xavier, ‘the Ox’ Guillemot to gain possession of James Bowie’s knife. 11

1 According to the researches of fictionist genealogist Philip Jose’ Farmer, Belle Boyd was the grand-aunt of Jane, Lady Greystoke, nee Porter, whose biography is recorded in the TARZAN OF THE APES series by Edgar Rice Burroughs. J.T.E.

2 An epee de combat is used mainly for thrusting when on foot and a sabre for Joshing generally from the back of a horse. J.T.E.

3 Some details of Rose Greenhow’s career are given in: KILL DUSTY FOG. J.T.E.

4 Told in: THE COLT AND THE SABRE and THE REBEL SPY. J.T.E

5 Told in: THE BLOODY BORDER. J.T.E.

6 Told in: BACK TO THE BLOODY BORDER. Details of the Ysabel Kid’s and Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog’s careers are given in the author’s CIVIL WAR and FLOATING OUTFIT series. J.T.E.

7 Told in: THE HOODED RIDERS. J.T.E.

8 Told in: THE BAD BUNCH. J.T.E.

9 Told in: TO ARMS! TO ARMS! IN DIXIE, and THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. J.T.E.

10 Told in: SET AFOOT. J.T.E.

11 Told in: THE QUEST for BOWIE’S BLADE. J.T.E.