The Remittance Kid Part 13

'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 d.a.m.nation 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 G.o.d-d.a.m.ned priest-ridden one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

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' b.u.mped 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 gla.s.ses 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' '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 gla.s.ses with a much darker pair. Lastly, he had b.u.t.toned 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.senger 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 compet.i.tors, 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 pa.s.sengers disembarking. As there had been no other members of the clergy coming ash.o.r.e, 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 ca.s.sock. 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 pa.s.sengers 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 ash.o.r.e.

' "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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sented, 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 pa.s.sengers inside the vehicle before they could be subjected to a closer scrutiny. Taking a hint from his employer's att.i.tude, 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 unantic.i.p.ated 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 c.o.c.ked 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 b.u.mpiness 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 pa.s.sengers 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sing.

'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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.t 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 a.s.sist 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Branigan warned, thrusting his Remington's twin superposed barrels against the centre of the priest's back.

'Mother of G.o.d!' 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 G.o.d'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-b.i.t.c.h.'

'M'sieur!' the victim gasped and his French accent became more p.r.o.nounced. 'You're making a terrible mist -'

'Like h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 h.e.l.l 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 a.s.sistants 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 a.s.sistance 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 gla.s.s 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.