The Remittance Kid Part 1

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 t.i.tle is placed with the 'Calamity Jane' series in the chronological list. As usual, to save my regular readers from repet.i.tion and to a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sably 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 s.e.xually 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 - pa.s.sion was one that the audience found interesting.

Secondly, the new inc.u.mbent of the Church of St Augustus was standing and watching in the wings. As he had arranged for the a.s.sembled 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 n.o.body wished to arouse his displeasure.

Lastly, certain local politicians had pa.s.sed 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.

'd.a.m.ned 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-cla.s.s 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 ent.i.tled 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 att.i.tude 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 sanct.i.ty 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs, 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 landowning cla.s.ses. 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 compet.i.tion 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. n.o.ble 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 compet.i.tors 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 G.o.d 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?'

'G.o.d d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l 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-b.i.t.c.h. 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 billyc.o.c.k hat10 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 cla.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances 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 ma.s.s exodus, or the kind of hostile reaction which would otherwise have been accorded to an unpopular entertainer regardless of s.e.x. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt's pa.s.sage. 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. TPS.

7 According to the legend, being informed during an argument that an Italian born in the United States was ent.i.tled 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 'Billyc.o.c.k 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sage 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 st.u.r.dy 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 gla.s.s.

Although the actor had a cutthroat 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 a.s.sistance and need not betray his secret armament.