Wilde West Part 13

Vail raised thick eyebrows almost to the rim of one of the worst wigs that Grigsby had ever seen. Gray and shiny, smoothed down flat at the top, it looked like some kind of dead fish curling up in the sun. "How come?" Vail said. "He's a reporter, that's how come. Soon as he knows, he'll try to get it in every newspaper in the country. It'll kill the tour."

"Uh-huh. Tell you the truth, I got a bigger problem here with the hookers gettin' killed."

"Hey. Sure. Naturally. I can understand that. But you got to understand my position also, Marshal. I got to make sure everything goes smooth on the tour. This gets out, I'm gonna lose bookings like crazy, all over the place."

He was a typical Easterner, talking mile-a-minute from the corner of his mouth. Maybe forty-five years old, he wore a suit of brown and mustard yellow plaid that reminded Grigsby of the tablecloths in cheap restaurants. He was round and tubby, with two or three shiny chins.

"So where were you last night, Mr. Vail?" Grigsby was getting a headache. From staring at Vail's suit, probably. He needed a drink.

Vail sat back in his chair and pointed a plump forefinger at the center of his chest. "Me? You talking about me?"

"You're the one I'm lookin' at."

"Hey now, Marshal. Hold on there. You don't think that any of us knocked off these hookers?"

"You got a better idea?"

"Sure I do. It's obvious. There's some b.a.s.t.a.r.d out there trying to sabotage the tour."

Grigsby smiled at the notion. "Yeah? Who'd do a thing like that?"

"How do I know? I got a lot of rivals. And I'll tell you this. It's a rough business, Marshal. Ferocious. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. I know a guy-I'm not mentioning names now-but I know a guy, an actor, he burned down a theater in Buffalo because another actor got the part he wanted. Burned it to the ground. In Buffalo. Like Buffalo really counted, right? Can you believe it?"

"Never been there," Grigsby said. "So where were you last night, exactly?"

"Here. I was here. But listen, Marshal-"

"All night?"

Vail shook his head. "Jeez. You don't give up. I went over to the Opera House at nine, to check the receipts. Got back here around nine-thirty, quarter to ten."

"You see anybody? The desk clerk?"

"I had a drink downstairs. Talked to the bartender for a while. Came up to my room about ten-thirty."

"And stayed here?"

"Yeah. Went to sleep around eleven."

Grigsby nodded. "Tell me about the other folks on this tour of yours."

"Hey. Really, Marshal. You're barking up the wrong tree. Couldn't of been any of them."

"Let's start off with O'Conner," Grigsby said.

"Jeeze," Vail said, and shook his head again.

"What kind of a fella is O'Conner?" Grigsby asked.

Vail shrugged. "He's a reporter. He drinks. So what else is new."

"He ever disappear at night?"

"How would I know? I'm in bed by ten-thirty, usually. But lookit, Marshal. O'Conner's not your man. I'm telling you, it's somebody trying to screw up the tour."

"What about the German? Von Hesse?"

Vail leaned forward. "Lookit, Marshal, you gonna have to talk to O'Conner about all this?"

Grigsby nodded.

"I just had a thought, see. Follow me on this, okay? If O'Conner puts this in the paper, it's gonna kill the tour, am I right?"

"That's not my problem."

"Yeah, but see, maybe it is. 'Cause if it gets out in the newspapers, then this guy of yours, the guy who's killing all the hookers, he's gonna know you're wise to him, am I right? And he's gonna hide out, right? He's gonna lie low. And you're never gonna find him."

"I'm talkin' to all the people on this here tour. The sonovab.i.t.c.h I want is one of 'em. He's gonna know, straight off, that I'm wise to him." And for all I know, Grigsby thought, you're the sonovab.i.t.c.h.

"Right, sure," said Vail, without missing a beat, "but if the tour gets canceled, everyone's gonna take off on their own. They'll be all over the place. See what I mean? He'll be gone, he'll be in New York or Chicago or Philadelphia. Wherever. Somewhere you can't get hold of him. But if the tour stays together, see, he stays with it. He's got to, 'cause if he leaves now, he's gonna draw attention to himself. Am I right?"

"You figure I should let him kill off another hooker?"

Vail's eyebrows soared up his forehead. "Jeez, no, o' course not. I look like Attila the Hun to you?" The eyebrows lowered. "No, see, what I was thinking, you keep digging around for him, see? And I cooperate, you know? I mean, I help you out any way I can. Maybe you're right, maybe it's one of these guys on the tour. Now I think about it, it makes sense to me. Sure it does. It's obvious, right? So I keep an eye peeled, I watch these guys like a hawk. And I let you know if I pick up anything. But the thing is, we keep the whole business under wraps, see? So the papers don't catch on."

"And how'm I gonna stop O'Conner from writing it up? Shoot him?"

Vail was leaning forward now, enthusiastic. "You do a deal with him. He'll love it. You tell him you're gonna give him an exclusive, see. You tell him that once you find the guy-and I got a lot of confidence in you, Marshal, I know you're gonna find the guy, you and me together-and once we find him, you're gonna give O'Conner everything you got. All the facts, see? All the background stuff." Vail sat back. "He'll love it, Marshal. Trust me."

Grigsby had learned over the years that it was generally a pretty good idea not to trust anybody who said "Trust me." He said, "He'll still be writing it up afterward."

"Yeah, but see, by then it'll all be over. You follow me? I mean, you'll have the guy. It's not like the women who come to the lectures-and, see, the women, they're three quarters of the audience, probably-it's not like they're gonna be afraid to come. Which they would be, see, if they knew he was out there, running around loose. But afterwards, after you catch the guy, well, jeez ..." Vail sat back and looked off thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "publicity like that, it'd send the receipts right through the roof, probably. You couldn't buy publicity like that." He looked back at Grigsby. "So whatta you say, Marshal? We got a deal?"

Vail didn't know it-if he had, most likely he wouldn't have been so eager-but what he'd just offered was a solution to a problem that, somewhere behind Grigsby's dull headache, had begun to nag at him. If Greaves learned about the other killings, he'd weasel his way into the investigation. He'd try to edge Grigsby out, he'd try to gouge a few bucks out of this for himself.

But if Grigsby could keep everything under wraps, Greaves would never know.

He nodded to the business manager. "I reckon. Long as you do your part. Long as you cooperate."

"Hey," said Vail, holding out his hands, palms upward. "Didn't I say I would? And you ask anybody in the business. Jack Vail says he's gonna do something, that thing is as good as done."

Grigsby nodded. "So why don't you tell me about this von Hesse fella."

Vail grinned and pointed his finger at Grigsby. "See? That's what I like. You just don't give up. You got that incredible persistence. Jeez. It's amazing." He sat back, shook his head in admiration. "You know, I got to feel almost sorry for this guy you're looking for. I mean, with you after him, he's as good as dead already."

"Uh-huh," said Grigsby. "And von Hesse?"

Vail waved his hand lightly, dismissively. "Nah. Not a chance. No way could he be your guy. I mean, he's an officer and a gentleman, you know? Besides, he's also like deeply religious. He's reading these religious books of his, all the time."

"If he was a soldier," Grigsby said, "he'd know how to use a knife."

"Yeah, well, sure. But a soldier, wouldn't he use a gun instead?"

"Depends."

Vail shook his head. "Nah. Not von Hesse. All you got to do is talk to the guy and you'll see what I mean."

"What about this fella Rudd.i.c.k?"

Vail hesitated. For an instant, his eyes went shrewd-and then, all at once, they became innocent and open. It was the same swift change of expression that Grigsby had seen in bad poker players when they picked up a pat hand.

"Well now, Marshal," said Vail. "You ask me about Rudd.i.c.k. Now naturally I don't think he could of done these terrible things you're talking about. And naturally I don't want to say anything bad about the guy. I mean, live and let live, that's my motto. But I got to admit that Rudd.i.c.k, he's a strange one." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Just between you and me, I think he's kind of a swish. A nance."

Grigsby nodded. "And that's how come he's traveling with Wilde? The two of them together?"

Vail frowned. "What?" He sat back suddenly and he laughed. "You think Oscar's a swish?" He laughed again. "Nah. That's just part of the act. It fooled me too, the first time. I thought, jeez, whatta we got here? What kinda pansy-pants is this guy? But you should see him with the women, Marshal. They eat that stuff up. They're crawling all over him, like snails on a tomato. And Oscar, I'm telling you, he loves it." He leaned forward confidentially again. "The fact is, I happen to know personally that Oscar gets more beaver than John Jacob Astor."

Grigsby frowned. The idea offended him. Not because it meant he was wrong about Wilde. (Wilde was a nance, whatever Vail said.) But because it suggested that he was wrong about women. Grigsby would bet his life savings-not much of a wager, admittedly-that real women didn't go for the lah-di-dah sissy types. Society women, maybe. All stiff and dried up, like last year's roses. Smelling of dust and talc.u.m powder. Them, maybe. And them, Wilde was welcome to.

But not real women.

He said, "So you figure I oughta talk to Rudd.i.c.k?"

Vail held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong. Like I say, hear no evil, speak no evil. All I'm telling you, he's a strange one."

Grigsby nodded. "What about this Countess?"

Vail lowered his head skeptically, multiplying his chins. "Hey. Come on. You don't think a woman could of done that?"

Grigsby shook his head. "She's travelin' along with the rest of you. Maybe she saw somethin'."

Vail pursed his lips. "Well. Maybe. But lookit, Marshal, if you talk to her, could you do me a personal favor and break it to her gentle like? I mean, she's a real lady. A real aristocrat. She's not used to all this kinda stuff."

Who was? Grigsby wondered. "She's travelin' with von Hesse?"

"Yeah, sure," said Vail, "but nothing like you think. He's her escort, like. They're friends, is all."

Grigsby nodded. For the first time, he found to his surprise that he was almost liking Vail. At least the little man tried to look out for this Countess of his. "How's she get along with Wilde?"

"They're friends. Really, Marshal, she's not that kind. She's a real lady."

Vail reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a gold watch. "I don't wanna rush you, Marshal-like I say, I'm happy to help out any way I can. But is that it, pretty much? I mean, there's some things I got to take care of."

"I need a list of all the places where Wilde gave his talks. Since he left New York."

"Sure," said Vail. "No problem."

HANDS IN THE POCKETS of his overcoat, lips puckered, Oscar pondered his way down the wooden sidewalk of Main Street. He had been unable to remain in his room. After Grigsby's visit, the place had become abruptly smaller; he had felt hemmed in, oppressed. Quickly, ignoring the bright filaments of pain that trembled and twitched against the inside of his skull, he had done his toilet and dressed himself. In basic black, as seemed fitting-although, having no suitably somber topcoat, he had been obliged to wear the ankle-length green velvet coat he had brought from London. Its collar and cuffs, at least, were black.

What he had wanted to do, still wanted to do, was trot off to Elizabeth McCourt Doe. His strange, traitorous doubts had vanished. The dull vacuum he had discovered within himself when he awoke-this had suddenly been filled, swollen, by an almost overwhelming need.

But she might not be at the mansion. Or Tabor might be. And so might the servants ...

And so Oscar was, once again, alone.

Curious how aloneness could remember only itself. The easy, commonplace joys of friendship, the wild joys of love: it could recall none of these. One felt, experiencing it, as though aloneness were the fundamental reality; as though the rest were mere illusions.

He looked around him.

Within the few minutes since he left the hotel, the sun had vanished. The sky now was overcast, crowded with gray brooding clouds so close to the earth that they seemed to sc.r.a.pe along the rooftops of the bleak brick buildings.

Appropriate. Nature mirroring a state of mind. The clouds a reflection of the clouds that lay over his tour. Over his life.

He walked on, looking down again at the sidewalk, oblivious to the pa.s.sersby.

Four women killed. Mutilated. What kind of madman could do that?

Grigsby was wrong. He must be wrong. Impossible that one of the others could be responsible. A madness so extreme, a madness so patent, surely by now it should have revealed itself in a word, a glance, a gesture?

"Ah, Mr. Wilde."

Oscar stopped, looked up from the gray wooden slats at his feet.

Colonel von Hesse stood before him, as military as ever in a long gray topcoat and sharply pressed gray slacks. Under his left arm, holding it at an angle of forty-five degrees from the horizontal, he carried a large book with a worn brown leather cover.

"What excellent luck," said von Hesse. "I was hoping to meet with you. Tell me, how would you translate the word abgeschiedenheit?"

Oscar frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Abgeschiedenheit. You would translate it how?"

Translating from the German was perhaps the last thing Oscar wished to do at the moment. But the good Herr von Hesse was, as always, so relentlessly earnest that Oscar found it difficult to dismiss him. (He had often suspected that this earnestness was something that good people relied upon, in much the way that beggars relied upon their rags.) "Detachment, I should say. As in a dwelling. Isolation. Separateness."

"Ah," said von Hesse, nodding. "In the spatial sense, yes? I would translate it in this manner also. But Eckhart, you see"-he tapped the book with the forefinger of his right hand-"uses the word in quite a different manner. I should translate his use of it as meaning disinterest. He puts it into the psychological, eh? And it is fascinating, I find, that he ranks this abgeschiedenheit higher even than love in the scales of virtues. The highest of all, he ranks it, in terms of approaching to G.o.d."

Oscar decided that the two of them could discuss G.o.d some other time. "Look, Herr von Hesse, obviously you haven't heard about these murders."

Von Hesse blinked, startled. "What? Murders?"

Oscar glanced around, suddenly realized that the sidewalk was crowded with people. He took von Hesse by the arm. In German he said, "Come along. I'll explain."

"But this is horrible," said von Hesse.

The two of them sat over cups of muddy coffee at a corner table in a small gray restaurant (EATS, the sign outside had grimly promised). The floor here, like the floors of most of the saloons and cafes in Denver, was ankle-deep in sawdust. Only two of the remaining five tables were occupied: one by an elderly man drooped inside a limp black suit, the other by a pair of grizzled, dour, and spectacularly dusty cowboys.

"Yes," said Oscar, "but perhaps the most distressing aspect is that this Grigsby is firmly persuaded that one of us is responsible."

Von Hesse, sitting as usual with his spine perfectly vertical, nodded thoughtfully. "Well, of course, this is possible."