Tatum had never enjoyed time spent in Mr. Jones’s office. He suspected Mr. Jones was a smarter man than he appeared, with more powerful friends than he would ever admit to knowing. Each of the assignments given to him by Mr. Jones had been carefully laid out, with much detail concerning the target, unlike the work given to him by Rowland Price, which always included an instruction not to mention anything of it to Jones. Tatum felt he could keep secrets as well as any man, and the extra cash came in very handy for gambling and clothing and cocaine.
“You have a nasty bruise there, Mr. Tatum.”
Tatum’s temple was swollen and scabbed from his contact with the water pump. He had attempted to hide it by rearranging his long hair, but the wound was still visible.
“I fell.”
“Where did you fall?”
“In my room.”
“You have a room in Durango, Mr. Tatum?”
“What does that mean?”
Mr. Jones formed a steeple with his fingertips and leaned back in the leather chair behind his desk.
“It means, Mr. Tatum, that you have been accepting work from a certain party who is not myself. That is in direct contradiction to your agreement with me.”
“If someone’s been telling you stories …”
“Someone has, and I believe the stories, Mr. Tatum. You have reneged upon your contract with me, and I am extremely disappointed to learn of it. Please explain yourself.”
Tatum took several breaths. “I needed the money.”
“And Mr. Price paid you well.”
“He did.”
Tatum knew he must not lie to Mr. Jones. If Mr. Jones already knew it was Price who had given him the secret assignments, he probably knew everything else.
“Kindly give me all the particulars.”
Tatum talked without pause for ten minutes. Rather than tell the lie he had given Price to explain their escape, he even confessed that the woman and girl had bested him in Durango. When he was done, Tatum waited for comment, but Mr. Jones simply stared at him for a long time.
“Do I still work for you?” Tatum asked.
“Most certainly you work for me, Mr. Tatum. You will never work for anyone else. The day you leave my employment will be the day of your death. Now I anticipate your next question—you wish to know what reply to give Rowland Price when next he comes to you with work suited to your talents, do you not.”
“Yes.”
“You will accept the work, and tell me all about it. You will continue to search for Mrs. Dugan, by the way, and report to me with the results, as well as to Mr. Price. When you find her you may fulfill the terms of your contract with Price, since that is only good business, but you will under no circumstances do any harm to the girl. Instead, you will bring her to me, safe and sound, with not a hair on her head out of place, is that clear?”
“Clear enough.”
“You seem somewhat unhappy about this arrangement. Are you afraid of this unusual girl with her unusual powers, Mr. Tatum? Say so now if you are, and I’ll arrange for someone else to perform the work.”
“No.”
“You have disappointed me once, as I said. I do hate to be disappointed twice by the same individual, Mr. Tatum. It undermines my faith in humanity, you see.”
“You won’t be disappointed again, Mr. Jones, not by me.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Tatum.”
Alone, Mr. Jones mulled over these new developments. He had been aware for some time that there existed within Big Circle the nucleus of a splinter group called, with dizzying conceit, the Praetorians. He knew also that Rowland Price was high among the leadership of this group, and he knew their ultimate agenda. Political power of the kind allegedly gained through the ballot box held no appeal for Mr. Jones and the upper echelon of Big Circle. These men preferred to get what they required from the world by subterfuge, or by force, if that became necessary. They had no need of armies or elected representatives, understanding as they did that one man often will hold the key to a doorway of opportunity. That same man, if unwilling to open that doorway for the betterment of Big Circle, was easily removed in most cases. Tatum was necessary for such actions, and Mr. Jones had no intention of replacing him as punishment for the extra work he had performed, all unknowingly, for the Praetorians.
The arrogance of the group growing inside Big Circle like a cancer was an irritant to Mr. Jones. He was not impressed with their plans to form a political party, since there already existed one party too many in the nation, in Mr. Jones’s opinion, and he was even less impressed by the clumsiness of their machinations toward a takeover of Big Circle to further their ends. The Praetorians would never succeed in this, because they were not in possession of a complete list of the members of Big Circle. Such a list, names written on a sheet of paper, did not even exist, so important was it to maintain secrecy within the organization. Only five men other than Mr. Jones knew the list, and kept it safely inside their heads. These individuals termed themselves The Six. Not only were the Praetorians unaware of the existence and identities of The Six, they remained in ignorance of the fact that fully half their own number were traitors, reporting directly to himself, most of these spies unaware even of each other. The Praetorian organization was as riddled by foolishness and duplicity and hubris as a Swiss cheese was riddled by holes, yet its leaders congratulated themselves on their cunning and the farsightedness of their vision. It all made Mr. Jones shake his head.
Of particular interest to him was the role lately undertaken by Leo Brannan as a member of the Praetorians. Mr. Jones had been one of the old guard of Big Circle consistently to blackball Brannan’s admission to their ranks, and had relented only when it became clear Brannan had been recruited into the Praetorians by Price. The decision to bring him into the broader fold of Big Circle, primarily to keep a closer watch on him, was made in secret session by The Six. Mr. Jones had worried that the coincidence in timing might cause suspicion among the Praetorians, but such was their confidence that they thought nothing of it, other than to congratulate themselves on now being able to allow Brannan free circulation among members of the larger organization they were committed to undermining. Mr. Jones’s low opinion of Price and his cohorts had sunk even lower.
It was gratifying to learn that Leo Brannan was indeed a man of lesser moral stuff than many had once thought. Mr. Jones was fascinated by the ease with which the trollop who had been Walter Morrow’s whore had, since being escorted out of Denver by none other than Tatum, insinuated herself into the bed of Brannan, employing no other deceit than a simple change of name. The whore was clearly more talented in the practice of duplicity than was her new protector; even Rowland Price remained unaware that the two women were one and the same whore, despite his clumsy investigation (still proceeding) into her past. Price and his Praetorians were amateurs, and when the time came to winnow Big Circle of its useless but proliferating chaff, all would be revealed, so that the Praetorians might appreciate the enormity of their many shortcomings before punishment was meted out.
Brannan’s treatment of his wife was abominable, even if the woman had been inattentive to his needs following her dreadful accident. The stepdaughter also had been much maligned, given the unfortunate combination of physical ugliness and her rumored penchant for conversing with spirits. This last attribute intrigued Mr. Jones, who had lately lost his wife to cancer of the stomach. He had loved her very much, and wished to speak with her via the etheric plane, if that was possible. He had visited the parlors of so-called mediums in Denver and Chicago, but been greatly dissatisfied by their bogus performances and general flimflammery. He was taken by the notion that if he had the opportunity to meet with young Omie Dugan he might be granted the interview with his beloved Dorie he so longed for. Mr. Jones was a materialist by inclination, but was not about to sever any possible ties with the one person he had ever loved by ignoring the supernatural out of stubborn intellectual conviction. He hoped Tatum would locate Omie and bring her to him. If she w
as able to perform as a conduit between the living and the dead, he would reward her, possibly by taking her into his home; but if the rumors were untrue, if her powers were negligible or fraudulent, he would hand her back to Tatum for disposal.
Brannan himself was a fool, in the estimation of Mr. Jones. Clandestine investigation into his affairs had revealed that it was his wife who was responsible for the bulk of his wealth; Brannan was an astute businessman, and his vast holdings were managed with the necessary firmness and resolve such an empire demanded, but the fact remained that if his wife had not staked a claim to the original Deer Lick mine, Glory Hole would never have been his alone. Mr. Jones did not dismiss Brannan as merely lucky, but he did condemn the man for not having acknowledged the essential part played by his wife in his rise to riches. Brannan was not required to build statues in her honor, or to place her in his boardroom, nothing so ridiculous as that; but he should have kept her as his wife. If he insisted on supporting a mistress also, that could have been overlooked, but to have dismissed Zoe Dugan as he did because he preferred the thighs of Walter Morrow’s ex-whore was an indication of moral enfeeblement, of the poorest judgment, especially since he was supposedly being groomed for high office by the Praetorians. The idea of Leo Brannan as President of the United States was ludicrous, of course, and the Praetorian bubble would be burst long before any such eventuality could even begin to see the light of day.
Zoe Dugan was being hunted down because Brannan wanted her gone completely from his life. Further investigations into Brannan Mining were called for, to provide a reason for so unnecessary a vendetta. Mr. Jones already suspected the woman was legally entitled to far more than the million dollars Brannan had bestowed. It would be interesting to see if his suspicions were correct. The personal fate of Mrs. Dugan was of no concern to Mr. Jones, but the fate of her daughter was tremendously important.
He took from the drawer beside him a picture of his wife as she had been in the early years of their marriage, and looked upon it with a terrible yearning.
The cell was below street level, like a medieval dungeon, and was without any kind of window. A crude iron bunk was bolted to one of the three brick walls, and a shamefully inadequate bucket stood in the corner. A gaslight burned day and night in the narrow corridor beyond the fourth, barred wall. Even though she had been provided with adequate blankets, Mrs. Garfinkle found herself shivering often.
She and her husband had been arrested without warning by Sheriff Simms and brought directly to the jail. She had not seen Mr. Garfinkle since then. It was plain that their attempt at subverting Leo Brannan had been found out. Mrs. Garfinkle had been happy to let the sheriff know exactly what she and Mr. Garfinkle had done, and took pains to demonstrate her pride in having defied so great and powerful a man. She could not be sure, but she thought they had been held incommunicado for at least a day and a half. People would be wondering about their fate, asking questions and demanding to see them in person. Leo Brannan was trying to intimidate them, that was all, and his foolish game soon would come to an end, when he realized the truth could not be kept locked away forever. She quite looked forward to telling folks what she and Mr. Garfinkle had done, and if it ever came to court, why then, she would speak her piece about his shameful conduct even louder, and let the world know what manner of man Leo Brannan was.
It had begun with Imogen Starr. Mrs. Garfinkle had not taken to her at all while she was a boarder at her house, and had seen the way in which she sized up every male in the place, including Mr. Garfinkle, and found each of them wanting. Mrs. Garfinkle had seen right away that Imogen Starr was a smoothly polite gold digger looking to stake a claim, and not the kind to be satisfied with just anything. It had been a shock, but no surprise, when she abruptly moved her things out without a word, and was not heard of until the story began circulating around Glory Hole of Leo Brannan’s beautiful mistress. Mrs. Garfinkle had known, even before the name of Imogen Starr was linked to the rumor, that it was she. Mrs. Garfinkle had conceived an outright dislike for the man at that moment, and shared her feelings with Mr. Garfinkle, always a man of moral rectitude and stern example, and Mr. Garfinkle had agreed that it was a disgrace.
Mrs. Garfinkle had penned a letter to Brannan’s wife, using her left hand to disguise her naturally flowing calligraphy, for which she had won prizes at school. Mailing the result, she had experienced a flush of righteousness; Zoe Brannan deserved to know the worst, in order that she be able to fight against it. The result was a hastily arranged departure by the wife and unfortunate daughter in an easterly direction, the word being that both were bound for the grand tour of old Europe. This was not the reaction Mrs. Garfinkle had anticipated, but she supposed it was all that Zoe could have done, considering her husband’s status as one of the nation’s wealthiest men.
There matters might have rested, had not her husband brought home news of a troubling nature several weeks later. As head clerk to Brannan’s attorney, Mr. Garfinkle was privy to many documents of a highly secretive nature, and he had lately been involved in work of a decidedly immoral bent. Learning of it from his unhappy lips, Mrs. Garfinkle declared they must fight against such forces as Brannan had at his disposal, by informing Zoe that what was hers by obscure legal right was being stolen away through devious means.
The Garfinkles reasoned that they were unable to do anything about such perfidious conduct, given that Zoe was beyond communication across the ocean, but then had come the astounding news that she and Omie had returned. Mrs. Garfinkle suggested to her husband that she send another letter, giving hints of the plot, but before such a letter could be penned, Zoe had taken her daughter and again departed Glory Hole, this time for parts unknown. Mr. Garfinkle had access to certain financial documents which stated that Zoe had been awarded one million dollars, to be deposited for her personal use in a Denver bank. The first installment had been withdrawn through a bank in Durango a few days later, and Mr. Garfinkle brought this news of Zoe’s new location home to his wife.
Knowing a bank would reveal nothing of its clientele, Mrs. Garfinkle had written the letter as planned, and mailed it to Durango care of general delivery, hoping it would find the woman so grievously wronged, even if that woman had more money than the Garfinkles might earn in a hundred years. She had addressed it to Zoe Dugan, on the assumption that a proud woman would have reverted to her former name, even if she had called herself Brannan for the purpose of making the bank withdrawal.
Mr. Garfinkle had shortly thereafter perceived himself to be under suspicion at the office, since his employer had found him studying the latest addendum to the so-called green file, this being the simple addition of a newspaper clipping, already yellowed by the passage of weeks since its printing, which concerned the murder of a transient named Bryce Aspinall. This same name had appeared in the green file’s opening sheets, wherein it was stated that this man had been, and still was, the husband of Zoe. Learning this caused the Garfinkles great soul-searching. They were opposed to bigamy, but far more adamantly opposed to cold-blooded murder for monetary gain. Zoe might have been a sinner, but she was more sinned against. A search through old newspapers in their basement had given the Garfinkles exactly what they needed to alert Zoe, a woman they now saw as an errant daughter in need of parental advice. Scarcely had the clipping been mailed to Durango, however, than Simms and his hulking deputy had come to take them away.
She hoped Mr. Garfinkle was not suffering unduly; he was plagued by a weak stomach, and required special meals only his wife could provide. Mrs. Garfinkle was filled with pride. She and Mr. Garfinkle were little people, unimportant people, yet they had spoiled the selfish plans of a man richer than many a king, and there was little or nothing that Brannan could do to silence them, should he attempt to stifle news of what they had done. She truly was not intimidated, and hoped Mr. Garfinkle was similarly emboldened in the face of such blatant bullying as had been practiced against her by Simms, who clearly was one of Brannan’s minions.
Her only regrets were the disgusting toilet arrangements and the fact that she was separated from her husband by several thicknesses of brick. She had imagined quite some time ago now that she heard his voice crying out at a distance, through the intervening walls, but was able to convince herself that she had imagined the sound.
All that was required of her was fortitude and the courage to submit for a time to inhuman conditions. Mrs. Garfinkle had heard about jails and the many kinds of hell in evidence there, but thus far her term of imprisonment had not been unduly harsh. She was determined to maintain a brave face, eat the dreadful fare provided by the deputy, and use the bucket as little as possible; this should be the first place fitted with Brannan’s much-vaunted flushing commodes, she decided.
When the deputy unlocked her door, she was a little surprised to note that he carried no tray of food. Mrs. Garfinkle was quite hungry by then, having had her last tray removed a long time ago, it seemed; the deputy was always reluctant to tell her how long she had been held.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “Or is it morning, or night?”
“Makes no difference,” said the deputy.
“I suppose not.” Mrs. Garfinkle smiled, deeming agreeableness the appropriate response to so primitive a creature as this one. He was very large and stupid, the type of man she could best describe as “limited” if she wished to be kind. His name was Bob, but he had told her no more than that.
Bob went to the bed and began stripping off the sheets.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Garfinkle said. “They were becoming a little gamy. I really must insist that you place at my disposal a washbowl and jug of clean water, plus soap and a towel. You may get them from my home if these things are not available here.”
“Makes no difference,” said Bob, now shaking out the sheets.