The Coyote Tracker (16 page)

“I beg your pardon, miss,” Rufous said, apologizing with another sweep of the hand, this one not welcoming at all.

“It's all right.” Josiah drew in another breath, the pain in his side dissipating slowly. “I suppose I deserved what I got.”

“Rufous said you're here to help, Mr. Wolfe.”

“I hope to.”

“Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?”

Josiah was fully on his feet now, facing Blanche Dumont directly. “Probably not, ma'am,” he said, “probably not.”

CHAPTER 29

Blanche Dumont's private study was simpler than
Josiah had expected it to be. Three of the walls were lined with dark walnut bookshelves, loaded to the edge with books of every size, the spines muted in color—dark browns, dark reds, dark greens, all of the titles embossed with fancy gold lettering.

The lone bare wall housed a working fireplace, vacant of any fire at the moment, along with the door that Josiah had entered.

A portrait of Blanche Dumont hung over the mantel, her pure white hair piled up on top of her head, her skin as white and fragile as alabaster, and wearing a formal, full-length dress that was as red as blood. Her pink eyes were penetrating and angry. It was not a flattering portrait at all.

There was, however, a hint of beauty to Blanche Dumont's face in real life; all she lacked was color, hue, a complexion that suggested something other than death. Her body was shapely, well proportioned, and under normal circumstances, if a man could imagine it, she would have been a stunning woman of above average beauty. Age showed itself on her face. Even in the portrait, sunlight was her enemy, burning spots into her skin, highlighting every wrinkle and worry line.

Josiah turned his attention away from the picture. Piano music still played softly in the distance, and the voices had quieted. Once Blanche Dumont closed the door to the study, they were enveloped in a silent tomb.

A desk sat in the middle of the room with one chair in front of it. Actually, the room looked like what Josiah had expected Woodrell Cranston's office to look like.

“Have a seat,” Blanche said. Her voice was guarded, and she eyed him like an enemy. There was no doubt that she was armed, had a gun or knife within a second's reach, most likely under one of the ruffles of her long skirt.

Josiah did as he was told, remaining silent, his eyes focused on the woman, trying to determine her intentions. He was in enemy territory, and he knew it.

Blanche walked past Josiah, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was just as light and understated as the other aromas in the house. More honeysuckle. Spring. Nectar. Opportunity. His nostrils flared, even though he barely realized it. Her dress swished as she passed, white satin rubbing on more unseen satin, the mystery of female garments a matter of quick and sudden speculation. Again, his mind's wandering was much to Josiah's surprise. The environment provoked something deep from inside him that he tried to ignore, to keep at bay.

Desire and need were recent redevelopments in his life, and even then with Pearl's circumstances, they still had to be restrained, pushed away constantly. Some days, he felt like a schoolboy, unrepentant, needful, and uncaring about any consequences. He knew he would have to keep his wits about him.

Blanche sat down in front of Josiah. Other than her pink eyes, the only color apparent, since her white skin melded perfectly into her white dress, was an emerald necklace centered perfectly on her neck. A gold chain held it in place, and it was easy to see that the jewel sat atop a locket. The secret pendant was the only manner of jewelry that she adorned herself with. Her fingers were bare of rings.

The choice of a white floor-length dress struck Josiah as odd, since it almost made Blanche look nonexistent. But it really didn't. Her eyes stood out like a pair of fires in a snowy field. She was fully aware of her deficiencies and capitalized on them in a way that drew even more attention to herself.

“Now, why is it you wanted to see me, Mr. Wolfe?” Blanche Dumont's voice was equally as measured as everything else about her. There was a hint of an accent, European of some kind—not Italian, not English or German, but a mix—that gave her an air of power, of aristocracy. It was then that Josiah remembered that he had heard that she had been born a duchess of some type or another but was shunned by her family, sent away, abandoned at a young age because of her appearance. She was lucky she hadn't been killed, drowned as a baby or something worse. Whether or not there was any truth to the story was questionable. It may have all been nothing more than lore to add to the mystery that swirled around Blanche Dumont—created and populated by no one other than the woman herself.

“Josiah. You can call me Josiah.”

“Relax,” Blanche said, not losing the authoritarian edge to her voice, but allowing it to soften just a bit. “I know who you are. We don't need to play games, Mr. Wolfe. I read the papers. And I was good friends with Suzanne del Toro.”

Josiah exhaled deeply, felt his face flush, then sat back in the chair staring straight into Blanche's riveting pink eyes. “I was sorry for her death.”

“I'm sure you were. She failed, though, to see the threat Emilo, her brother, posed. You can trust no one in this business. Not even family. Especially not family.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Surely you understand the need to be suspicious.”

“I do.”

“Good. Then we are united in that thought. And you must consider that I am not trustful at all of your intentions to help. I presume there's a self-serving reason why you think I must need your aid.”

“I didn't realize you would until I came here.”

“And saw the street?”

“Yes, and the path of the new railroad.”

“Old news, Mr. Wolfe. I refuse to sell, but there is no stopping progress. That is what you see?”

“I would think you'd be successful no matter where you take your business,” Josiah said. “So I guess I don't understand the holdout.”

“I doubt you would.” Blanche sat as still as a statue, her hands clasped at her waist, her long, thin fingers just in sight over the braided lip of the ornately carved desk. “Now, why don't you just tell me what you came here looking for, and we can put all of these paladin issues aside.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“I don't need a hero to save me, Mr. Wolfe. I am quite capable of sorting out my own matters for myself. You are quite correct in your assumption that location will have no bearing on my success. But this is my home. One I have worked hard to hold on to. You have a home, I'm sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then, again, we can unite on a thought. We are forging quite the relationship, Mr. Wolfe. Now,” she said, leaning forward, unblinking, “what are you looking for?”

“I'm looking for a girl. Two girls, in fact.”

A slight smile cracked at the right corner of Blanche's pursed lips. “You don't look the type, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Pleasure is not what I seek.”

“Pity. I have just the pair to host you.”

Josiah ignored the offer as best he could. If he were a different kind of man, he might have queried her for further information—for future reference—but he was not the least bit interested in a moment of double pleasure. “You're aware of the Ranger that is accused of the most recent murder of one of Brogdon Caine's whores, Lola something or other?”

“She had a last name, Mr. Wolfe. Wellsley. Her name was Lola Wellsley. She was a working girl, forced to use only what she carried on her frame to make a living. You would be wise to realize that I do not know what a whore is, Mr. Wolfe. Are we united on that understanding? That that is an offensive word to me?”

Josiah drew in a breath, felt like he had been slapped across the knuckles. “Yes, ma'am. I apologize.”

Blanche Dumont nodded, then said, “Of course, I am aware of the murder. Though I am surprised that you are aware of the string of murders. Most of the social monarchs and patrons of respectability in this pitiful town have turned a blind eye to the savagery suffered by these girls.”

“Much to your . . .”

“Rage, Mr. Wolfe. I am enraged at the lack of concern or efforts by the sheriff and his men to put a stop to the fear and to the senseless killings. Would you expect me to be anything else? Or are you of the opinion that I mistreat those that I manage, or that I exploit them just for my own riches?”

“I have no clue how you run your business, ma'am.”

“Hmm . . . You are a surprise, Mr. Wolfe.”

Josiah shrugged. “So you applaud the arrest of the Ranger?”

Blanche flinched, brought her hands to the top of the desk. “He is your friend, I assume? A person you know well. And let me guess, you believe him to be innocent.”

“Yes, I do.”

“He is wrongly accused, then? Another pawn in a game of power?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then we are united on that thought, too. Does that surprise you, Mr. Wolfe?”

Josiah nodded, relieved. “I'm looking for the witness who has stepped forward. I'm hoping she is here. I was at the Easy Nickel earlier. Brogdon Caine said all of his girls had taken refuge with you.”

“His girls? That is what he called them? They are meat to him. He beats them during the day and chains them at night. Do not speak that man's name in my presence again, Mr. Wolfe, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am. I beg your pardon.”

“No need. You wouldn't know my enemies, or my benefactors for that matter. Many would surprise you. Not everyone manages their business in the same way.”

“There was no evidence of chains or abuse that I saw. Could he be the killer?” Josiah asked.

Blanche shook her head no. “He has no motive that I know of, other than to see me out of business. And even that would not serve him well. He lives off my flies. His rates are cheaper, his girls desperate because they have nowhere else to go. I have standards, Mr. Wolfe. My clientele expects a certain level of comfort. The girls here are clean and educated. Many go on to live happy, successful lives once they leave here. Without me, Caine has no one to undercut, to tear down. He needs me to stay in business so he can stay in business. Rats have need of a successful grocer, do they not?”

Josiah nodded yes, then shifted in the chair. His Peacemaker pressed tight against his side. “So, if Caine isn't the killer, do you know who is, or suspect who is?”

“Your past relationship with Suzanne de Toro allows for a small amount of respect, Mr. Wolfe. I am still uncertain of your intentions.”

“The same as yours. To find out who killed Lola Wellsley so my friend can be freed.”

“I care nothing about that young Ranger's fate. Only that the killings stop. I believe they are directed at me, an effort to fully run me and my business out of Austin.”

“Because you won't sell your house?”

“They will take my house, tear it down at will, with me in it, if they have to. Let's just say this, Mr. Wolfe. I may know too many secrets for my own good. Men who visit my place of business usually do so under the cover of night, carrying a lie with them in their purse. They have families. Children. Respectable jobs and positions in the government. I have used what I must to stay here as long as I can, and to see what can be done to stop the killings. It has cost me greatly.”

“You have blackmailed your clients?”

“Call it what you want. I call it negotiating power.”

“With who?”

“Mr. Wolfe, really . . . you know I cannot tell you that.”

Josiah then studied Blanche Dumont, who had now sat back in her chair, putting as much distance between them as possible. “Okay, I understand that, but I have a name I need some information about. Maybe you can help with this, too?”

Blanche popped up her right shoulder and turned her head away from Josiah, staring at the closest bookshelf. “You can ask, but I may not answer.”

He stared at her hard, directly, even though she would not make eye contact with him. “Abram Randalls. Will you tell me why he was busted out of jail? Is he the killer, Miss Dumont? If anybody would know . . . you would.”

CHAPTER 30

Blanche Dumont stiffened in the chair, then
turned her attention back to Josiah. Her eyes were on fire. “Abram Randalls is a lying, conniving little thief who deserves everything he gets.”

“He stole from you?”

“In more ways than one.”

Josiah remained silent, waiting for an explanation. The piano music played on, faintly, somewhere beyond the closed door. Other than that, there was no noise in the house that he could detect. He knew if he listened hard enough he could hear his heartbeat, Blanche Dumont's, too. Only hers was beating faster. Anger boiled on her face. She did not blush. She turned pink from the inside out.

Blanche finally exhaled, bit the corner of her lip. “Abram is not a killer, Mr. Wolfe. That is all I will say. He does not have it in him to physically hurt anyone or anything. He only has the capability to take. Take what is not his. He has no self-control when it comes to money or valuable objects. I learned that lesson too late.”

Josiah let her words settle. He didn't want to push her, or shut her down from telling him more. But something about what she'd said struck him as odd. Josiah was certain that Randalls had fought in the War Between the States, had learned the ways of the Vigenere cipher there, just like he had. Maybe it was an assumption based only on the man's age. “Do you know if Abram Randalls served in the war?”

“That's a strange question, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Humor me, if you know the answer. I have a knack for asking strange questions.”

“He was a carpetbagger, an opportunist, a magician with numbers, not a killer. One spot of blood, and he would have dropped to the ground like a battered fly. I know of no service to the Union that he performed in the war. He was probably hiding under a bed somewhere, afraid to peer out until Lee surrendered. The coward.”

“Lee or Abrams?”

“Assume what you want, Mr. Wolfe. I have never had any interest in the war.”

“Randalls is a Yankee then?” Josiah knew the answer to the question, knew full well what the term “carpetbagger” meant: a Yankee who stole from Southern states or people, acting in his own best interest, under the guise of helping the afflicted during Reconstruction.

“Born and raised in Massachusetts.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Blanche eyed Josiah curiously, as if he were playing a game with her. “Why is that odd? There are a lot of Yankees in Austin.”

“More and more every day, I 'spect,” Josiah said, finding the information disturbing. Another pattern was forming, and he didn't exactly like seeing it. Paul Hoagland and Woodrell Cranston were from Massachusetts. Now he learned that Abram Randalls was, too. Maybe it didn't mean anything. Or maybe it did. There was no indication that the three men knew one another, but Josiah made a mental note to find out if they were acquaintances.

“I'm sorry, I still find your question about Abram Randalls as a soldier more than a little curious,” Blanche said.

“A note was found in his cell, written in a reasonably elaborate cipher. I was trained with the skill of deciphering codes very similar to the one Randalls left behind, so I assumed he'd served in the war in a similar capacity. My assumption may be wrong, judging from what you say.”

“I know nothing of those skills. Maybe he didn't write the note.”

“Maybe not.”

“What did it say?” Blanche asked.

“That they would hang him at the oak tree. It didn't take long to figure out that he was speaking about the Tree of Death. Do you know of it?”

“I do.” Blanche looked confused. “That makes no sense, though. Why would Abram fear his own death from men who went to a lot of trouble to free him?”

“I wondered the same thing.”

“What did you do?”

“I rode out there, and was attacked, shot at.”

“I think you may have been lured out there under false pretenses, Mr. Wolfe. You are lucky you weren't killed.”

Josiah wasn't going to agree or disagree with that. She might be right. Maybe Abram Randalls didn't write the note like he'd assumed. “Why do you think Abram Randalls was busted out of jail?”

“I do not know for sure. Unless he knows who the killer really is. That would make some sort of sense.”

“If the killer has an army of men.”

“He just might, Mr. Wolfe. He just might.”

Josiah settled back in the chair as far as he could, not sure what to think about what Blanche Dumont had told him about Abram Randalls, but that was not what he had come for. “What about the girls? The witness that has come forward? Is she here?”

“I am not harboring any witness, Mr. Wolfe, nor would I. I think the charade being played out in the court considering your Ranger friend is unjust and unconscionable.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. Now I just have to . . .”

“Believe me?”

“Yes, ma'am. I guess I'm sorry to agree with you on that.”

“I would be disappointed otherwise, Mr. Wolfe. Now tell me of this other girl.”

“She's Scrap's sister. He's the Ranger accused of killing Lola Wellsley. His sister is a . . .” Josiah stopped short of saying
whore
. “She works in the same business as you. He saw her at Brogdon Caine's, followed her out the back door. That's when he encountered the murdered girl, Lola. His sister ran off into the dark, fearful, I assume, of seeing Scrap and dealing with his anger. He's ashamed of her, of how she earns a living. He's been trying to rescue her for years, even though he lied to me, told me all along that she was a nun. Her name is Myra Lynn. Myra Lynn Elliot. I assume she's got dark hair, black, a fair complexion, and a skinny build like her brother.”

“I know those stories, Mr. Wolfe. They're mostly all the same with families. Girls don't just show up at on my door with a smile, begging for a job. They are usually broken down, poor, beaten, and worse. The stories I have heard would make your toes curl. What men do to girls and get away with is criminal beyond belief. But it is a man's world that we live in.”

“Their parents were killed by Comanche.”

“I can't justify the choices of a stranger, Mr. Wolfe. But trauma comes in many forms. I'm sorry, I can't help you on either count. I know no girl named Myra Lynn, or anyone who looks like that. She could have changed her name. They usually do. It's easier to live through the rough nights if you think what's happening to you is really happening to someone else. I doubted from the beginning I could be of any help to you.”

“Why'd you see me then?”

“Because I can use all of the help I can get. Girls being brutally murdered is bad for business. The sheriff is of no help. He's turning a blind eye to the troubles. Which is no great surprise, considering his father . . .” Blanche stopped, looked away from Josiah for a brief second.

“His father, Myron Farnsworth, the president of the First Bank of Austin?”

“Yes.” Blanche lowered her eyes to the desk.

“He's a client?”

“Assume what you will, Mr. Wolfe. But Rory Farnsworth has many reasons to revel in my current financial troubles, between the loss of revenue and the eventual loss of my home. The sheriff has ambitions, but I assume you know that if you know him at all. He dreams of being governor, or even bigger, if I'm correct in my read of him. He thinks the sheriff's position is beneath his stature and abilities. But he is wrong about that. He can't even handle his own men, can't lead his way out of a wet potato sack. And his father's discreet habit, at least one of them, I am sure, would be an embarrassment to him and his plans for the future.”

Josiah nodded. “I know Rory well enough to know his ambitions, but I didn't know he was after the governorship.”

“Like I said, Mr. Wolfe, the sheriff is ambitious . . . with all of the trappings that come to a man with that kind of desire. His weaknesses are apparent to everyone but him. He is likely to lose the next election if he does nothing to change that perception. The explosion at the jail will make everyone more nervous about his capabilities. Trust me, he wants to find Abram Randalls as much as you do. But for very different reasons, I'm afraid.”

Josiah stood up. It was time to go—he was not going to get what he came for. “I'm glad you took the time to see me, ma'am. I appreciate it.”

“Will you kill him?”

“Who?”

“Abram. Will you kill Abram Randalls?”

“Only if I'm forced to, ma'am.”

Blanche nodded, understanding, and remained seated, though a softness crossed her face. “Truth be told, I only saw you because of Suzanne del Toro, Mr. Wolfe. She cared greatly about her captain, the dead captain you returned to Austin to be buried, but you stirred something inside of her. Broke her grief from that time and allowed her to feel alive again, hopeful.”

“She did the same thing for me,” Josiah whispered.

“I figured if you were that kind of man, then you'd be worth seeing, worth pinning a hope on. It's just a shame that Suzanne's life was cut short. We would have made a great team, a force to be reckoned with in all of Texas, not just Austin.”

“You know ambition when you see it,” Josiah said.

Blanche Dumont smiled. “Of course, I do.”

“I hope I didn't disappoint you then.”

The smile on her alabaster face faded. “We are united in our desire that the killer of these innocent girls is brought to a swift justice, and that the travesty of the legal inequality and lack of attention to this matter is put to an end, once and for all. I can hope for nothing else.”

“We are, ma'am. We most certainly are united on that front,” Josiah said, with a nod. Then he turned and walked out the door of her office and out of the house, without saying a word to another person.