Louisiana Stalker (2 page)

The tailor appeared at the door just as the barber was finishing up. While Clint opened the door, the barber was very busily collecting Clint's hair from the floor and putting it in a bag.

“You going to sell that?” Clint asked him.

The man looked at him guiltily.

“That's okay,” Clint told him. “Just make sure you get a good price.”

“Yes, sir,” the barber said. “Thank you.”

“When you get to the lobby, ask the clerk to draw a bath for me, will you?” Clint said.

“Yes, sir.”

The barber left and Clint closed the door behind him. As he turned around, the tailor was taking his tape measure from around his neck. He was a meek-looking man with a potbelly and very little hair on his head.

“One suit, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clint said, “just one. And you can have it done by tomorrow?”

“For you, sir, of course.”

“Good.”

Even while the tailor was taking measurements, Clint's gun was never out of reach. The man was very efficient and was finished quickly.

“I'll have the suit here tomorrow afternoon, sir,” he said as Clint let him out.

“That'll be great,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

He closed the door, collected some fresh clothes and his gun, and went down to take his bath.

 • • • 

When he left the hotel, he felt fresh and clean, newly shorn and shaven. The only thing remaining was to fill the hunger in his belly with a steak.

He had his choice of good restaurants, so he simply stopped into the closest one. Before long he had a steak dinner in front of him, with potatoes and onions, green beans, and coffee. The place was crowded, but he was able to get a table in the back. From there he could see everyone, and no one seemed particularly interested in him. If his tail was in the room, he wasn't being obvious about watching him. That meant it wasn't likely he was there, because up to now he'd been very obvious.

The steak was excellent, prepared just right, and the coffee was as strong as he liked it. Afterward he topped it off with pie—apple, because they didn't have peach—and he enjoyed that, too.

When he left the restaurant, it was dusk. The street was a damn sight less busy than it had been when he went in. It was a perfect time to walk the streets, get acquainted with Baton Rouge, and maybe stop in on the local law.

Storefronts were closed and locked up, but Clint could see that Baton Rouge had every kind of business you could possibly think of. Restaurants were lit up and open, all busy. He also passed a few bawdy houses, where the women were right outside on the balconies, showing off their wares, which were—in many cases—not only lovely, but considerable. Made him have second thoughts about his rule not to pay for sex—almost.

However, even given everything the town had to offer, he still found it lacking the charm of New Orleans's French Quarter.

He passed both the Baton Rouge Police Department, and later the sheriff's office. He made the decision to check in with the sheriff, and not the police. He still preferred the sheriff's and marshal's offices to the modern police departments that were moving in on the Western towns of late.

He stopped in front of the sheriff's office and read the shingle there:
BEAUREGUARD LEBLANC, SHERIFF
. Quite a name, he thought as he knocked and then entered.

While the outside of the sheriff's office was weathered, obviously one of the older buildings in town, the inside had recently been redone. The walls had a fresh coat of paint, the hardwood floors seemed to have been buffed, and the desk the sheriff was sitting behind was gleaming cherry wood, and huge.

“Evenin', sir,” the lawman said, looking up at Clint. “What can I do for you?”

“Sheriff LeBlanc?”

“That's what it says on the shingle,” the man replied, “but around here most folks just call me Beau.”

The sheriff seemed as new as the desk. He was barely thirty, and though the young man was seated, Clint could tell he was tall, with broad shoulders and a firm jaw. He had obviously not been wearing a badge long enough to become world-weary about it.

“I've just ridden into town and thought I'd check in with you,” Clint said.

“Well, that's real nice of you,” LeBlanc said, “but is there any particular reason you felt the need to do that?”

“My name is Clint Adams.”

For a moment he thought the man didn't recognize the name. He hated the thought that he might have to elaborate, but recognition finally dawned on the younger man's face and he pointed his finger at Clint and said, “The Gunsmith, right?”

“That's right.”

LeBlanc immediately stood, and Clint could see he was not wearing a gun. The man stuck his hand out and said, “Well, this is a great pleasure, sir, a great pleasure.”

Clint took the man's hand, allowed him to pump his hand vigorously.

“What brings a legend to Baton Rouge?” LeBlanc asked.

“Haven't been here in a while,” Clint said, retrieving his hand. “Thought I'd check the town out and see how it had grown.”

“Well,” LeBlanc said, “I'm sure you've seen that we've grown by leaps and bounds.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Clint said.

“And I don't think you'll have any worries while you're here,” the sheriff said.

“How do you mean?”

“We've come about as far from the Old West as you could get,” LeBlanc said. “You won't have anyone trying to push you into a gunfight on the street. We just don't do that here.”

Clint had already found that to be true every time he went to New Orleans, but he was sure that challenging another man to a duel was still in fashion. Especially among the well-to-do denizens of the Garden District.

“That's good to hear,” he said.

“And I appreciate you coming in to let me know you're here,” LeBlanc said. “Perhaps we can even have a drink together at some point?”

“That'd be fine with me,” Clint said.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Cajun House.”

“A fine establishment,” LeBlanc said. “Will you be gambling while here? We can offer you every form of games of chance.”

“I might be persuaded to play some poker,” Clint admitted.

“Excellent,” LeBlanc said. “I hope you'll enjoy your stay. Oh, uh, and how long would you be staying?”

“Not sure,” Clint said. “Probably a few days.”

“Hopefully more,” LeBlanc said with a wide smile. “And while you're here, please let me know if I can do anything for you.”

“I'll do that.”

Clint left the sheriff's office, wondering if Baton Rouge had become the kind of place where a man like Beau LeBlanc could be an effective lawman.

The mention of gambling had whet his appetite for some poker, but he decided to wait until the next day. He wanted to get a good night's sleep, and that new suit, before he started touring the gambling houses.

He returned to his hotel, exchanged a friendly nod with the young desk clerk, and went to his room.

He moved his boots and sat on the firm mattress. It struck him how young both the desk clerk and the lawman had been. Thankfully, his waiter had been a bit older. He was afraid the men in this town were going to make him feel older than he was.

He read some Dickens, then doused the lamp, removed his clothes, and turned in for the night.

 • • • 

He awoke the next morning refreshed. He decided to try the Cajun House's own restaurant for breakfast, thinking that maybe his new suit would arrive by the time he was done.

He ordered steak and eggs, which were prepared perfectly. The coffee could have been stronger, but was acceptable. The waiter told him he could charge the meal to his room, and pay for it all together when he checked out.

“That's very civilized,” Clint said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint left two bits on the table for the waiter and went out to the lobby.

“Mr. Adams?” the clerk called.

He turned and looked at the man. “Yes?”

“I have a message for you.”

“Is that so?” He approached the desk. “From who?”

“I don't know,” the man said. “It was left on the desk while I was . . . away.”

He handed Clint an envelope, which was sealed.

“Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint carried the envelope with him away from the desk. He debated whether he should read the message there in the lobby, or in his room. He decided to open it right there. He sat on a sofa against one wall and opened the envelope. Immediately, a perfume smell rose from inside. The message was obviously from a lady, but who knew he was there?

He unfolded the perfumed note and read it. It was an invitation to have supper with a woman named Capucine Devereaux. He didn't know the woman, but the perfume smelled expensive. The invitation was for 8 p.m. at a restaurant called Chez Louis.

He stood and walked back to the front desk.

“What's your name?” he asked the clerk.

“Ronald, sir.”

“Well, Ronald, what can you tell me about a restaurant called Chez Louis?”

“Ah”—the young man's eyes lit up—“one of the best restaurants in Baton Rouge, sir. But also, I'm afraid, one of the most expensive.”

“I see,” Clint said, “and do you know anything about the name ‘Devereaux'?”

“One of the finest families not in only Baton Rouge, but in all of Louisiana.”

“A rich family?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I see.”

“Is that who the note was from, sir?” Ronald asked. “The Devereaux family?”

“Thanks for the information, Ronald.”

“If the Devereaux family has summoned you, sir, you had best respond.”

“Is that so?”

“Simon Devereaux is a very powerful man.”

“Then why would he need me?”

“You're the Gunsmith,” Ronald said as if that alone should explain it.

“I know who I am,” Clint said. “Okay, thanks.”

There was no way for him to acknowledge the invitation. He assumed that Capucine Devereaux, whoever she was—daughter? wife?—would wait for him at Chez Louis, in the hope that he would accept the invitation.

He had all day to decide.

 • • • 

Clint's new suit was delivered to him before he left the hotel. He had the tailor hang it in his room. Then he waited for the saloons and gambling houses to open. He visited six of them, nursed half a beer in each, picking out the ones he would definitely visit later that night, while wearing his new suit, to do his gambling.

During the course of the day he thought about the note in his pocket. How had Capucine Devereaux known that he was in Baton Rouge, and at what hotel he was staying? There were only two people who knew that, Ronald the clerk and Sheriff LeBlanc. What motive could either of them have for telling her? He could find out the answers to all those questions by accepting the lady's invitation to supper. And he could do that while wearing his new suit. Of course, he'd also bring along his little friend, the Colt New Line, which would fit comfortably beneath his jacket without being seen.

He didn't mind accepting a blind invitation like this, but he'd never think of doing it unarmed.

In fact, the Gunsmith never did anything unarmed. Even in bed—with or without a woman—his gun was always within arm's reach.

He finished the last of his beer in the sixth gambling house—once again drinking only half—and went back to his hotel to get ready for his supper date.

Resplendent in his new suit, with the Colt New Line comfortably nestled in the small of his back, Clint left the Cajun House and flagged down a cab.

“Do you know where Chez Louis is?” he asked the driver—again, a young man, like the clerk and the lawman.

“Everybody knows where Chez Louis is,” the driver said.

“Okay, well, take me there, then.”

“Hop in, sir.”

It was a mild night, so driving in the open-air cab was a pleasure. There were a lot more lights at night in Baton Rouge than there had been the last time he was there. He didn't know who the mayor of the city was, but he was apparently doing a hell of a job.

The cab pulled to a stop in front of Chez Louis, which was not lit up. It had a classy, dark front with a large, stenciled plate glass window.

“Here ya go,” the driver said. “Hope you got a fat wallet.”

“I'm a guest,” Clint said, paying the man his fare.

“Lucky you! Wish I had somebody who'd buy me supper here.”

“Maybe you will someday.”

“Want me to wait for you and take you back?”

“Won't be going right back,” Clint said. “I'll be stopping to do some gambling first.”

“I can come back and get ya,” the man said. “I know all the places a gent like you should gamble.”

“Why not? Come back in an hour. I should be finished by then.”

“If you're not, I'll just wait,” the young man said.

“What's your name?”

“Henri, sir.”

“Well, Henri,” Clint said, handing the young man some extra money, “maybe this will make it worth your while to wait.”

“Yes, sir!”

Clint left his jacket unbuttoned—easier access to the Colt—and entered the restaurant.

Inside was dark, mostly burgundy leather, with an occasional gleam of gold. The tuxedoed maître d' greeted him. He was glad to see that the man was middle-aged.

“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I'm meeting Capucine Devereaux here.”

“Ah, then you would be Mr. Adams?”

“That's right.”

“Excellent,” the man said. “How wonderful to have you with us, sir. Please follow me.”

The man led Clint through the crowded restaurant to a table in the back that seemed to have more room around it than the others, as if other tables near it had been removed.

He led Clint to a table where two ladies were seated, one slightly older than the other, but both beautiful. He assumed the older woman—in her thirties—was Capucine Devereaux, since she seemed to be dressed in the more expensive finery. The other woman was not yet thirty.

“Mrs. Devereaux,” the maître d' said, bowing slightly at the waist, “your guest has arrived.”

“Thank you, André.”

André looked at Clint.

“Mr. Adams, Mrs. Devereaux.”

“Ma'am,” Clint said, “it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, Mr. Adams,” Capucine Devereaux said, “take a seat.”

But Clint, whose hat was in his hands at this point, did not sit. Instead, he looked at the younger woman.

“Ah,” Mrs. Devereaux said, “I see we have a man with manners. Mr. Adams, please meet my assistant, Jeannie Bartlett.”

“Miss Bartlett.”

“Mr. Adams.”

“And now will you sit?” Mrs. Devereaux asked.

“Happy to.”

“Your waiter will be Pierre,” André said. “I will send him right over.”

“Send him with brandy, please, André.”

“Yes, madame.”

André withdrew and Mrs. Devereaux looked across the table at Clint. The other woman, Jeannie, kept her eyes down.

“I am very glad you decided to accept my invitation, Mr. Adams,” Mrs. Devereaux said, “especially since you have no idea who I am.”

“I asked around, Mrs. Devereaux.”

“And you learned something that made you come?”

“I did,” he said. “I learned that this is one of the best restaurants in Baton Rouge.”

“Indeed,” she said, “as far as I am concerned, it is the best, although my husband prefers the local fare to French.”

“I thought this was local.”

“This is a French restaurant,” she informed him, “but not a Cajun restaurant.”

“Ah.”

“Although if you'd prefer something Cajun, I'm sure the chef could handle it for you.”

“No, that's fine,” he said.

Mrs. Devereaux was a redhead, with pale skin and just the requisite dusting of freckles being a redhead required. She wore a jade green gown that was low cut, revealing an impressive expanse of pale cleavage.

Jeannie Bartlett had dark hair, with pale skin and very large brown eyes—when he could see them. She was slender, and very pretty. One or both of them smelled very sweet.

“I'm sure you are wondering why I invited you—a perfect stranger—to have supper with me.”

“That's one of the things I'm wondering about,” he said.

“Would you mind if we got to all your questions after supper?” she asked.

“I happen to be very hungry,” he said, “so no, I don't mind, at all.”