C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
So the trail had led to Way-cross. News of Diamond's intended arrival had travelled faster than he had and, consequently, someone in the little town wanted him dead. Back in Clarkston the furore caused by the foiled bank robbery obfuscated the fact that the pant-pissing clerk had disappeared. Preston knew the robbery had been entirely staged, hiding the truth: a deliberate, calculated assassination. A stroke of luck for the conspirators, the package had become all the more neat and tidy because Diamond's shooting prowess had left no finks.
But someone in Clarkston knew Preston had left town. And they also knew, or made a very lucky guess, where he was headed.
Preston swung his legs over the side of the bed and tugged on his soft leather riding boots. He took another long look through the hotel window. Darkness had descended on Way-cross's main street. Stepping out into the hall, he quietly closed the heavy oak door then attached another of the minute seals across the small gap between door and jamb. Silently Diamond moved down the ornate stair and exited out the back of the hotel. Frank Collier did not look up as Preston drifted by.
No street lamps illumed this area, only a single lantern shone dimly above the hotel door. The night grew darker in the alley beyond. Preston took a long moment for his pupils to adjust. Continuing along the lane he sorted out the location of Sam's Sewing Shop. Perhaps a thread might be found here.
A trash can carnivore yowled menacingly then bolted away disappearing in the opaqueness. By the light glowing dimly through the curtained window of the older seamstress's suite Preston discovered a small veranda separating the rear of the store from the dirt of the backstreet. He carefully tested the boards for squeaks before hoisting his frame onto the platform. Access to the roof of the building would have been easy for an agile person: Sturdy boxes —possibly treadle sewing machine crates— were stacked in a natural step as high as the eave. Edging nearer the window, Diamond removed his hat; easing up to the glass he allowed one eye to study the lighted room. It was a minuscule kitchen. On the very edge of his vision the peeping-Preston made out a doorway which probably led to a small bedroom. In full view he could see the curtained entry that opened into the sewing shop. Matilda, Samantha's deaf employee, sat at a tiny dining table, reading glasses perched on her forehead. Though her graying hair remained tied up in a bun at the back of her head, the widow looked strangely younger in the soft light of the lantern. Preston did not think of her as a typical little old grandmother. The lady appeared to be quite absorbed with a thick folder of papers on the table in front of her. She riffled through the sheaf pausing occasionally to peruse a document or to make annotations. What information so closely demanded the widow's attention? She must perform the accounting duties of the store as well as seamstress work.
Apparently satisfied, Matilda collected the papers and meticulously stowed them in the folder. A kettle began to steam on the wood stove; Preston heard its whistle through the window. Mrs. Frye made a pot of tea, moved to a rocking chair opposite the table and took up a piece of mending. Preston recalled the steady click, click, click of the busy needles when his mother knitted by the fire. He was very young and that seemed a long time ago….
Cautiously withdrawing from the window, Preston stepped down onto the dusty cinder and ash strewn alley, then continued along toward the next side street. Two more feline felons protested his nocturnal passage. A door banged loud behind him, an angry voice gave vent to the quarrelling cats. Diamond followed the side-street to the main avenue, angled across, hitting the boardwalk just in front of the sheriff's office, where a light burned dimly through the dust coated window.
Preston knocked on the door and pushed his way inside without waiting for the customary, “Come in”.
A white haired old-timer sat in Sheriff Moody Dexter's chair. By the eerie yellow light of a coal-oil lantern the fellow had been reading a tattered nickel novel. He looked up at the intruder, set the book on the desk and reached for a pipe in the spur ashtray beside him. Offering no greeting, he studied Preston over the flare of a match. Satisfied the pipe had taken sufficient fire he blew out a cloud of gray smoke. “Ja, so you vill be the McBlaine.”
“McBain,” Preston corrected, extending his right hand.
“Ole Evenson,” the older man accepted the handshake. “My prisoner,” Ole pointed the evil smelling pipe indicating the closed door behind him, “He vants to shoot you for killing his brothers.”
“Really!” Preston grinned.
The night watchman warmed to the smile. “Ja, I varn him, he might be dead too if he comes looking for you.”
Preston Diamond visited with the jailer for fifteen minutes before reaching the point of his intrusion. “Ole, I'd like to talk to Kenny Lester, if I may.”
Ole shrugged, “Vell, he hasn't had much company and he von't be talking until Friday when the Circuit Judge comes to town. Only the mayor's daughter and the doctor have been allowed in here to see him.”
Seeing the question on McBain's face, Ole added, “Barbara, waitress for the May Anne's, she brings Kenny his supper after the sheriff has gone home…”
An uncomfortable pause followed as Ole studied his pipe; Preston studied Ole. Finally the Norwegian shifted his gaze to Preston's face. Pointing with the pipe stem toward the Colt on Diamond's hip he said, “You have to give your gun to me and I vill go in there with you.”
Kenny Lester had seen fewer and probably better years than his deceased brothers. Having plenty of time available in his confinement he had shaved and groomed himself. Apparently still awake at the late hour, the harassed look of the damned haunted his dark features. By the light from Evenson's lantern Preston noted the tell-tale circles beneath troubled eyes. The last of the Lester brothers hadn't been sleeping well lately. A clean white bandage was wrapped around the young prisoner's left wrist. Kenny anxiously peered through the bars trying to establish who trailed behind the night man. Someone had kept the captive informed for he suddenly yelped, “Ole! Get that son-of-a-bitch away from me! He killed my brothers!” His voice raised in angry torment, “I swear by all that's Holy, when I get out of this hole, I'll escort that bastard to hell myself.”
Preston tried several tacks but the quarrelsome thief had worked himself into a screaming frenzy steadily growing more abusive and belligerent. Turning to the night guard, Diamond apologised, “Sorry for your time, Mr. Evenson.”
As the visitors reached the doorway, Lester grabbed the chamber pail and hurled the stinking contents through the bars. The filth fell short of the intended targets but the insane, screamed threats of bloody murder filled their ears. The sound softened considerably when the jailer closed the solid wooden door on the dark and foul cell block.
Ole Evenson shook his head sadly as he returned the Colt to Preston Diamond. “Ja, he is going the loco, Kenny Lester is.”
Next morning Preston Diamond enjoyed an after-breakfast cigar while admiring his carpentry handiwork of the day before. Samantha hadn't opened the shop yet and Preston waited to fulfil the promise of painting and sealing the window frame. He also felt obligated to patch the holes in the upper level before woodpeckers or flickers may gain entry. From under the brim of his hat Diamond studied the seamstress and the sheriff as, together, they walked toward his location. They had emerged from the side street leading to the livery stable and from this Preston surmised that Samantha still lived at the ranch with her mother and Dexter. It made sense the two should travel together to town. Maybe the town administration paid Dexter's livery fees. The man appeared an unlikely candidate for regular cleaning of a horse stall if there happened to be a barn associated with the sheriff's office.
The step-father and daughter were several yards away before they noticed Diamond. He spoke first, “Sheriff.” He tipped his hat to the lady, “Miss Dexter… I've come to finish the job, as promised.”
Samantha's smile, though brief, shamed the sunshine. “You are persistent, Mr. McBain.”
Moody Dexter merely grinned and veered off across the street to his office. Preston noted the limp had almost disappeared. As the proprietress unlocked the shop, Diamond excused himself and headed down the street toward Leon's Mercantile.
The remaining repairs were completed in short order. During his time on the roof of the sewing shop Diamond tried to re-enact the movements of the sniper who had attempted to kill him. All he found was a small piece of clothing, a torn remnant which had been recently hooked on a protruding nail head. He pocketed the piece, collected his tools and climbed down from the roof.
“You are both creative and thorough in your work, Mr McBain,” Samantha Dexter begrudged approvingly upon viewing the finished window. Fresh white paint glistened on the outer frame, the smaller wooden partitions and on the iron rim of the buggy wheel. Preston had meticulously wiped away smudges leaving the panes pristine.
To the disappointment of the temporary carpenter the lovely seamstress declined an invitation to lunch at the hotel. Her cold distrust had melted however and Preston could almost feel the radiation of natural warmth dancing in her eyes. “Maybe some other time,” he said softly.
“Maybe some other time, Mr. McBain.”
Diamond decided to visit Way-cross's financial institution. A direct approach may save hours of legwork and at the same time avoid arousing further suspicion among the townspeople. He did not feel it prudent to quiz Sheriff Dexter. McBain's purpose for being in Way-cross had not been brought to question and Preston Diamond hoped to keep it that way. Only himself and the person or persons who wanted him dead need know.
Banker Patrick O'Malley shook Diamond's hand with a grip to put a man at ease, then offered a seat in his small but handsomely furnished office. On two occasions Diamond had observed the Way-cross banker on the street striding purposefully to or from his work. He wore a well brushed brown derby hat, a businessman's suit and polished low cut shoes. In closer proximity now, while maintaining a conversation about the prospects of buying property, Preston discreetly studied the man and his surroundings. O'Malley was of average height, carried a few extra pounds and had less reason to visit the barber than a younger man. The hair he still possessed formed an even gray circle around his head as though the fellow had been meticulously scalped. The derby he wore on the street concealed the baldness perfectly. He had keen, hazel eyes, an odd combination of piercing and sincerity; eyes that saw further into you than may feel comfortable if you had something to hide. Diamond detected no false undertone, no negative aura, no instinctive warning to suggest Patrick O'Malley could be anything less than he presented on the surface. Preston survived by being able to read men, get inside their minds and know what they were thinking: If the money-man proved counterfeit he was far too good to be stuck in Way-cross.
“We're a family bank here in Way-cross,” O'Malley announced. “The young clerk who ushered you into this office is my son David. My daughter, Melissa, is away at school right now, she'll be back here working with us soon. We have a part-time teller, a close friend of David's, she is here today.” He smiled disarmingly, “My wife and I are the janitors.”
For reasons he could not fathom, Preston felt drawn to the cordial business man. “Have you been in Way-cross long, Mr O'Malley?” he asked, desperately hoping the reply would be more than two or three years.
“Most of two decades, almost as long as the town itself. My wife's family were among the first pioneers in the district.”
“Anyone ever offer to buy you out?” Preston asked innocently.
Patrick O'Malley laughed, “Not that I heard. An offer may have been made, if so, it fell on deaf ears.”
Dismissing the personal questions, the bank owner switched the topic to Diamond's intentions. “What brings you to Way-cross? Have you spent a good deal of time investigating opportunities here?”
“This is my first stop. I figure if the bank can point me in the right direction, why seek elsewhere?”
O'Malley acknowledged with a slight nod. “You may have chosen an excellent location if you have an eye turned toward the future. The town doesn't exactly radiate prosperity but if you look close, there is potential; there is a lot of potential for this little burg. We have a good water supply, we have the stage and we are the end of the line for Union Pacific on this spur. Mark my words: Someday this town will be a city!”
Diamond appreciated and encouraged the banker's enthusiasm. “You know, I'd like to buy a small piece of ground… A little spread quite close to town… Maybe a property that could someday be incorporated into the…” He smiled faintly, “the city.”
“Moody Dexter!” The banker blurted.
“The sheriff?” Preston's face reflected confusion.
“Yes! Yes! The sheriff is thinking of selling his place because his wife is going blind. No doubt another reason is that Moody is growing too large to handle the chores. But his excuse is that he needs to be able to check on her during the day while he is at his sheriff duties.”
O'Malley eagerly pitched the sheriff's property while Diamond offered enough queries to intimate an honest interest. The discussion soon reached a conclusion with the new-comer agreeing to have a look at the Dexter spread.
Back outside on the boardwalk, Preston looked up and down the main thoroughfare. An increase in traffic, several farm wagons and a canopied buggy were keeping the dust stirred up today. Maybe the bank man had been right: Way-cross will someday be a thriving city.
Diamond subconsciously observed the street activity while considering the conundrum: Why had the Way-cross Bank been spared any take-over attempt? Geographically the town was situated roughly near the centre of the area concerned in Preston's investigation. The fine thread of evidence he followed along the investigative trail had certainly led to this town; Death had sat in ambush awaiting his arrival. So, if a headquarters or ring-leader for the operation had been established in Way-cross, why had this bank not been among the first to be absorbed? Could the conspiracy have deliberately omitted Way-cross from its list so as to throw a possible tracker off the scent? Was Patrick O'Malley involved? Maybe the Way-cross banker had master-minded the entire operation. Preston shook his head, disbelieving this last thought.
News and rumour, unless embellished with death and gore, travelled slowly in the territory. Folks were not well enough attuned to piece together fragments in order to sensationalize hearsay. Only a very concentrated effort on Diamond's behalf had exposed the overwhelming evidence that a massive campaign to absorb the majority of the more modest financial institutions within a very big radius was in progress. There also existed the very real possibility that no one else even suspected a correlation between recent area ownership changes in the industry. Of a certainty, the orchestrator of the scheme now held title and ownership to a very substantial and dynamic range of properties and investments. Like an avalanche, the scheme could very well snowball eventually swallowing up the instigators. Preston Diamond hoped to be present when that happened.
As usual, business ran between furiously treading water and drowning at Sam's Sewing Shop. Along with regular stitching, alterations and sales duties, two weddings were scheduled in the near future; Samantha and Matilda were severely taxed to have the beautiful gowns and colourful dresses ready on time. This day, Samantha's work suffered from lack of concentration. Every time she glanced toward the street outside, her gaze halted at the beautifully sculptured window. The window led to thoughts of the quiet handsome man responsible for its construction. “He's a gunman! A killer!” she told herself, and then: “He was only protecting himself… and Dad.. he saved Dad's life!”
“He's arrogant… He's so good-looking.” An argument inside one's own head can have many avenues of approach, none of retreat. Thoughts generated in this circumstance do not seek an escape, they just bounce around one's mind changing shape, taking on new form and generally driving a person to the brink… In frustration, Samantha angrily threw down the pattern she had been trying unsuccessfully to attach to a cotton print. Facing Matilda she said slowly, “I have to go out for a short walk… I can not concentrate.”
The older woman, expressionless, nodded that she understood and continued her sewing.
Samantha stepped through her shop entrance doorway nearly colliding with Bradley McBain as he strolled along the boardwalk.
“How about coffee then?” he asked as if their conversation of the morning had not ended.
“Yes.”
<<<Chapter 5 Chapter 7>&tg;>