“It was just as likely done to you and all the others in that crowded taproom. I don’t know about You, but I suspect that harmless newspaper man was poisoned just to establish something was going around. Nobody thought nothing of it when strange faces showed up to fill in for sick guards, saying they was from the other shift.”
Guilfoyle snorted in disbelief and protested “Come on, that would take more balls than seven range bulls could rack up. I can see how a morning-shift man might buy a stranger as an afternoon man. But if even one real guard had showed up, as brave as I did-“
“I know,” Longarm cut in. “That’s why I’m more concerned about those missing guards than I am about you and Crawford. You two was supposed to survive, as misdirection.”
They got to the gate. It was obvious more than half the crowd had left by now and nobody still inside was wearing a federal uniform. Longarm quickly filled in the senior guard on the newest problem and asked, “I don’t suppose you boys would have noticed if one of those mysterious extra hands had strolled past you in other duds?”
Sergeant Greenwood said, “Sure we would have. It’s going on seven-thirty with the sun up, and none Of us are blind. Ain’t one gent with a clubfoot passed this way, neither.”
Longarm nodded, then he had to ask if there was any other way out. Before Greenwood mentioned it, Longarm groaned and said, “Oh, shit, of course.”
Greenwood said, “I reckon anyone in uniform could just walk through the back door and out the front, looking innocent and walking slow.”
Longarm turned to Guilfoyle and said, “Check it out,” although they both knew it was likely too late by now. As his sidekick lit out for the rear entrance of the lockup, Longarm turned to stare at what was left of the crowd. He didn’t see Cynthia Morton or any other gals, although Greenwood said more than one woman with odd tastes in entertainment had left a mite earlier. He saw Crawford about the same time the reporter spotted him and dropped out of line to ask what on earth was up.
Longarm was getting mighty tired of explaining the unexplainable by this time. But he owed Crawford for past favors, and had to feed him at least the basic facts. When he’d finished, Crawford whistled softly and said, “I’m glad I was only slipped a Mickey. For a while there, I thought I was coming down with the cholera. I’ll make sure my paper leaves your name off the list of fools, old pard. It’s not as if they slickered you, personal.”
Longarm growled, “I’m taking it personal. Billy Vail sent me and Guilfoyle to watch out for just what we failed to spot in time. I’ll bet that tricky little rascal is laughing his fool head off even as we speak.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Longarm. If I had you after me, I imagine I’d be up to more running than laughing. Knowing you, I feel sure you’ll cut his trail soon enough.”
“I wish I knew me with half that much admiration,” Longarm said. “Don’t look now, but most of Denver is paved over these days. Cutting sign on stone, road tar, or even cinders can be a bitch. I have no idea where to even start.”
Then, as if that had been a theatrical cue, a copper badge from Denver P.D. pushed through from outside, shouting for U.S. Deputy Long. Longarm waved him over and asked what was up.
The city lawman said, “It’s more like three down. Chambermaid at a neighborhood hotel just found three gents in three beds, shot dead in the wee small hours as far as we can tell. Sergeant Nolan said you was good at such matters and so, seeing as you was within easy walking distance …”
Longarm started to say he was too busy for a local homicide investigation. Then he counted in his head and said, “Shit, eight men add up to a squad, and we can only account for five who ought to be here.” He nudged Greenwood from behind and said, “Come on. I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m not, you’d know your regular shift’s faces better than I would.”
Chapter 7
As he’d more than hoped it might not be, Longarm saw the beat man was indeed leading them to the same damned yellow-brick hotel across the way from the federal lockup. It looked even seedier in the clear morning light. With the federal guard and Crawford in tow, Longarm followed the copper-badge to the second floor. Down the hallway a piece stood Sergeant Nolan, Denver PD., in an open doorway. As they joined him, Longarm noted it was room number 215. Inside, spread-eagle on a bed, lay a man smiling up at the pressed tin ceiling with a little blue hole in his forehead. He was naked, save for his undershirt. Sergeant Greenwood gasped and said, “Jesus H. Christ, that’s Ryan, one of the boys who called in sick last night!”
Longarm grimaced and said, “What you really mean is that a total stranger turned up, in his uniform, to tell You he was sick but not to worry about it, seeing you had a replacement.”
Nolan said, “I’m glad YOU just explained his missing duds for us, Longarm. I knew it was a good idea to send for you. We’ve been wondering how come none of the victims seem to have checked in with any clothes on. The clerk on duty last night don’t recall even one of ‘em checking in at all.”
“Let’s have a look at the others,” Longarm said.
They did. A guard Greenwood identified as Bill Miller lay dead in bed in 218, while one Isaac Bradshaw had managed to get murdered in 223. None of them looked as if they’d died of the cholera. Each had the same ugly wound in his forehead. When Crawford made a note of that, Nolan held out a palm full of brass and said, “All shot with the same .32 whore pistol. Likely a garter derringer.”
Crawford didn’t know as much about firearms as most lawmen, so he asked what made Denver P.D. so sure of that.
“You don’t leave brass on the rug unless you reload,” Nolan said. “Such ladylike weapons are usually single shot, so you have to. The shells are not only the same make, but hammer-marked the same way. That adds up to one gun in my book. What do you say, Longarm?”
The younger but sometimes wiser federal man took the brass and examined the hammer marks as he opined, “Well, say all three were fed knock-out drops by their companions. It’s possible one killer wandered from room to room with the same gun, but after that it gets mighty murksome. I’ve never heard even a derringer fire with no noise. Have you, Nolan?”
The burly Denver lawman scowled and said, “Of course not. It ain’t possible to fire a gun silent. What of it?”
“That first one, Ryan, would seem to have been shot with a sidekick of mine right next door in Room 214.
