The Fire of Greed (19 page)

Chapter 34

“YOU'RE LATE,” NICOLETTE DE LA GRAVIÈRE SAID CROSSLY
as the produce man braked his wagon at the rear entrance to the Refugio del Viajero.

“But
señorita
,” he insisted, as he began to unload the morning's consignment. “I cannot be late by more than a few minutes.”

“Late is late,” she grumbled. “And what of these tomatoes? They are quite small today. . . are they not?”

“Regrettably,” he said in agreement, although he could see no difference between these and yesterday's tomatoes, which the young woman had accepted with a smile on those lips the color of chilies.

“What has gotten into you this morning?” Therese de la Gravière asked her daughter when the produce man had finished unloading and driven off. “You nearly tore off the poor man's head.”

“The produce was late, and the tomatoes are small,” Nicolette replied.

“What's
really
gotten into you?” Therese asked, inspecting the tomatoes, which
did
appear to be the same size as yesterday's tomatoes.

“The produce was late, and the tomatoes are small,” Nicolette repeated.

“Nicolette.”

“I'm just thinking about the bandits,” she admitted.

“What is it about bandits that has my daughter so out of sorts that she feels she has to bark at the produce man?”

“They were brought in
dead
,” Nicolette said.

“By all accounts, they were dangerous men who had disregarded human life and had even
taken
human life.”

“Now,” Nicolette lamented, “there will be no trial.”

“Do you imagine that those men were
not
guilty?” Therese replied in an almost teasing tone.

“Did you read in the paper what I told Mr. Gough?” Nicolette asked.

“
Yes
, and I am so proud to see my daughter quoted in the newspaper,” Therese said with a smile. “I am also pleased that you insisted that he write of Refugio del Viajero. I'm looking forward to his visit.”

“We'll see
that
when we see it,” Nicolette said. “But did you read what I
said
?”

“About justice . . . about seeing justice done?”

“I told him that there is
more
to a trial than justice,” Nicolette said, stopping what she was doing and staring into her mother's eyes. “Am I just a naive girl?”

“
Ce qui?
”

“Mama, am I naive to think that a trial can be more than just a forum for determining
guilt
? Am I naive to think that a trial can also be about finding the
truth
?”

* * *

“MR. WALDRON, THEY'RE ALREADY GATHERING IN THE
Plaza,” Nathaniel Siward said, coming into the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe offices.

“Then I must go quickly,” Waldron said, shoving some papers aside. “We must thank Mr., um . . .”

“Muriday. The man's name is Ben Muriday.”

“We must thank Mr. Muriday on behalf of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad for apprehending the bandits and removing them finally and
completely
from our lives.”

“You got this one on the cheap,” Siward reminded him. “You had to pay Cole two grand to bring those two in. You retained Muriday for twenty dollars.”

“What irony,” Waldron said. “I think I'll find a way to pay him a bonus for relieving us of this curse once and for all.”

Waldron grabbed his coat and hat, and the two men walked quickly down the street toward the Plaza, the central square of Santa Fe.

“Is Tobias Gough . . . ?”

“He was already there when I stopped by fifteen minutes ago,” Siward confirmed. “He was asking people what they thought. He'll probably want to interview Mr. Muriday.”

“I want you to handle
that
, Nathaniel. Muriday does not sound like an especially articulate man . . . I don't think he should be left alone with Gough. Stay with him. Help him. Suggest phrasing.”

“On the subject of articulate phrasing, I read the interview with Miss de la Gravière in the paper this morning,” Siward said. “It would seem that you have a well-spoken young woman on your arm.”

“She is smart as a tack for sure,” Waldron said with a nod. “And she is very well read.”

“Seems a shame,” Siward said, shaking his head.

“What's a shame?”

“Seems a shame that those kinds of brains are wasted on a woman.”

* * *

AS WALDRON AND SIWARD REACHED THE PLAZA, THERE
were already about a hundred people on hand, and more trickling in.

In the hours since Ben Muriday had ridden into Santa Fe late yesterday, leading two horses with bodies strapped across the saddles, he had been the talk of the town.

For a number of hours last night, the
talk
of the town had been the
toast
of the town. Muriday had stopped into a saloon for a drink, and had found himself prevented from paying. This being the type of saloon where men celebrate such things, he had been greeted by an offer to buy him a drink. Before that drink had even reached his dust-encrusted lips, there had been a second offer, and then a third.

When Muriday entered the Plaza this morning, he was showing the effects of having not stopped accepting the largesse of the saloon crowd with that third drink—or even with the sixth.

Seeing Muriday, Siward escorted him to where Waldron was. In turn, Waldron swept him up onto the bandstand.

“The grateful Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad wishes hereby to express its deep indebtedness to Mr. Ben Muriday for recapturing those two bandits who had twice escaped, and who have finally been dealt their irrevocable punishment,” Waldron said, holding Muriday's right hand high.

There were a few polite claps, but most people were present out of curiosity, rather than celebration. Only from among a gaggle of Muriday's drinking companions of the night before was there any real applause.

“Much obliged,” Muriday mumbled, staring sheepishly at the deck of the bandstand. As much as he had long yearned for this very moment of glory and adulation, he was paralyzed with stage fright.

“To thank you for the service you have rendered to the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe . . . and to the
people
of the Territory of New Mexico, I am pleased to present you with this pass, which provides unlimited free passage on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe . . . in
perpetuity
,” Waldron shouted, giving emphasis to words he felt were deserving of emphasis.

Muriday stared blankly at the pass. He didn't know what to think. He had never been on a train in his life, and had never had any desire to be.

“And now I'd like to get on to that part of our business which I am sure Mr. Muriday is
most
anxious to transact,” Waldron announced to the assembly. “Two days ago, this road hired Mr. Muriday to be part of its contingent in the posse bringing these two heinous thieves and killers to justice. At that time, I offered to pay Mr. Muriday a gold eagle for a day's work. I now formally hand him that sum for a job well done.
Because
of his heroism and his going above and beyond the call of duty, I herewith
double
that sum in the form of a bonus . . . Having done that, I am going to double it
again
!”

“Much obliged,” Muriday mumbled, staring sheepishly at the four glittering coins in his hand, and remembering the canvas bag holding hundreds of these which he had once had in his possession. As he listened to the smattering of applause, he pondered the fact that his plan had finally come to its moment of completeness.

This was
it
.

As Waldron was shaking Muriday's hand a final time, Tobias Gough swept in.

“Wonderful remarks,” he said, patting Waldron on the shoulder.

Next, he introduced himself to Muriday.

“Mr. Muriday, I'm Tobias Gough of the
Santa Fe New Mexican
. Could you tell me what it was like to hunt those dangerous criminals yesterday?”

“I dunno . . .”

“Just tell me in your own words,” Gough said encouragingly. “Our readers will want to know exactly how it happened from the man who was
there
.”

“'Twas just ridin' along with Siward, when they got theirselves loosed somehow. We got blindsided. Siward done got knocked down and his rifle took. I went a chasin' 'em, caught up to 'em. They fought back hard.
I feared for my life
. Got nicked on the face from a ricochet . . . see here.”

“Tell me of the climactic moment,” Gough asked, glancing at the scar on Muriday's face, over which some gauze had been taped.

“Well, 'twas them or me,” Muriday said soberly. “Nearly got myself shot more than once. They was well hid . . . and a far piece away . . . but bein' a good shot, I was able to hit 'em. That sonuvabitch Stanton, he kept a-comin'. I hit him. He flinched a bit, but that didn't stop him. He just raised his damned gun and pointed it straight at me.”

“That sounds frightening.”

“You're damn right,” Muriday said, getting into his role as storyteller. “'Twas him or me. I just fired once more just as he shot at me. That's when I nailed the sonuvabitch.”

“That's an amazing story of survival, Mr. Muriday,” Gough said. Waldron could not tell by his tone whether or not he was taking the yarn with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless, in the final analysis, all that mattered was the results.

* * *

BLADEN COLE STOOD UNNOTICED AT THE FRINGES OF THE
crowd in the Plaza as Ezra Waldron acclaimed Ben Muriday and applauded the deaths of Stanton and Gardner. As Muriday was presented with the railroad pass, Cole was reminded of those two Denver & Rio Grande passes that he had found on the bodies of the two dead men, and which he still had in his pocket.

He was also reminded of Waldron's words the first time that they had met. The railroad man had said that he would not be disappointed if the robbers came in feet first. Now, thanks to Ben Muriday, Waldron had gotten his wish.

Chapter 35

“MAY I HELP YOU?” ASKED THE CLERK IN THE ATCHISON,
Topeka & Santa Fe office.

“I'm here to see Mr. Waldron . . .” Nicolette de la Gravière said hesitantly.

“He's not here. He just left with Mr. Siward. Expect him back soon.

“May I wait?” Nicolette asked. “He said that I am welcome to do so.”

“You bet. Go ahead and make yourself at home.”

Nicolette had missed Waldron by less than a minute as he and Siward hastened to the Plaza to reward Ben Muriday.

She took a seat in the chair next to his desk where she usually sat when she came calling, and prepared to wait. Her eyes wandered idly from the large clock on the wall to the equally oversized calendar posted near it, then to Waldron's desk, piled high with papers and ledger books.

The minute hand on the clock moved slowly.

Nicolette daydreamed. She crossed her legs one way, then rearranged her skirts and recrossed them the other way.

She yawned.

The clerk smiled as he came to Waldron's desk to look for something, and nodded slightly as he took the ledger book that was on top of the pile in the center of the desk.

As the book was removed, a delicate rustling of air slightly rearranged the papers beneath it.

Nicolette's eyes wandered idly to the large clock, to the oversized calendar, and then back to the papers on Waldron's desk.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a piece of correspondence on the letterhead of the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad. It struck her as odd and out of place to see the letterhead of the rival road here in the offices of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe, but assumed there was a good reason.

Nicolette glanced back at the clock, with its slowly moving minute hand, and decided to wait three more minutes—no, four. She was nervous that Mr. Ames might burst in at any moment. She was also nervous about appearing to be too eager for Ezra Waldron's company.

Meanwhile, though, she was growing more curious about the Denver & Rio Grande letterhead.

What hurt could it do to just take a quick peek?

She reached across the desk and tugged it out from beneath several other sheets.

Not wanting to be seen picking it up to read it, she left it on the desk, turning her head at an angle to make out the words:

Dear Mr. Waldron:

Thank you very much for your excellent work yesterday, and throughout this entire affair. New York is already reacting favorably, and our cause is greatly improved. Your own shares should also be performing well. As promised, we have quietly deposited your $5,000 in the account you specified. The next installment will be paid to you when the two loose ends are eliminated.

Sincerely yours,

J. Smith

Nicolette could not at first grasp the meaning of the letter. What sort of “work” could Ezra Waldron be doing for the Denver & Rio Grande? What could he have done for which he would be compensated so generously by a railroad that was such a bitter rival of his own?

What were the “loose ends”?

What was this about “New York reacting favorably”?

When was “yesterday”?

She looked at the date.

The letter was dated one day after Ezra Waldron had made the decision to publicize the robbery.

A cold chill came over Nicolette de la Gravière as the pieces came together.

Could it be?

No, it couldn't, she insisted, kidding herself.

She reread the letter, beginning with the date.

Unimaginably, it now appeared without a doubt that Ezra Waldron had been
paid
by the Denver & Rio Grande to publicize the robbery in order to cause the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe stock to crash.

She remembered now his words that the
next
war between the Denver & Rio Grande and the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe would be won or lost not in New
Mexico
, but in New
York
. This is exactly what he had meant.

How could this be?

No wonder Ames was so angry, and Waldron had been so sheepish in justifying his actions.

Then she realized that she had been so absorbed in the letter that she had not noticed that another sheet of paper was attached to the letter with a banker's pin.

Glancing furtively toward the clerk, she turned over the letter, and looked at the second sheet.

This page turned out to be a monthly statement from a stock brokerage firm called Ripley, Storey & Bledsoe. Nicolette was not well versed in business, but she
did
know how to read a balance sheet.

The statement showed that Ezra Waldron had purchased five hundred shares of Denver & Rio Grande stock at the beginning of the month, and an additional two hundred shares around the time of the holdup. The share price fluctuated slightly over the earlier days but spiked abruptly on the date of the announcement and went up even further on the day after, which was the closing date of the statement.

Ezra Waldron had bet on the rival road and had
more than doubled
his investment.

With a trembling hand, she turned back to the letter to read it yet again.

Could this be?

Her eyes fell on the phrase in the last sentence about the “two loose ends.” She now realized that these were the two robbers, shot and killed before the sheriff took custody of them yesterday.

The man with whom she had gone to the theater, the man whom she had found to be such a gentleman that she had succumbed to his charms, had been paid to have these two men
killed
.

Beads of cold sweat stood on her forehead, and she felt herself shaking as though it was below zero in the hot, stuffy room.

She had to get out of this place.

* * *

NICOLETTE DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO. SHE DID NOT
know where to go.

She dabbed the tears on her cheeks with her handkerchief and tried to compose herself.

Out of force of habit, she was walking in the direction of the Refugio del Viajero.

What would she tell her mother?

What could her mother do?

Should she tell the sheriff?

Would he believe such an implausible tale?

It would be her word against Waldron's, and whom would the sheriff believe? Would he take the improbable word of a girl barely out of her teens over that of a prominent businessman?

She could tell her mother, but what could Therese de la Gravière say to the sheriff? Would he take the word of a widow woman—or
any
woman for that matter—over that of a prominent businessman?

Tears of despair rolled down Nicolette's cheeks.

After all of Waldron's lofty words about bringing criminals to justice, and all her own self-righteous words about
truth
, it came down to this.

She had been keeping company with the worst criminal of all, and there was nothing to be done.

Suddenly, Nicolette had a brainstorm. If there was any
man
of prominence in Santa Fe who would believe her, it was Dr. Amos Richardson.

* * *

“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” RICHARDSON SAID AFTER
Nicolette had tearfully told him of her inconceivable discovery. “The Denver & Rio Grande specifically
thanked
Mr. Waldron for a service rendered to them on the date that he disclosed a huge theft?”

“And the letter said that five thousand dollars would be deposited,
and
deposited
quietly
, in his account,” Nicolette said eagerly, wiping away her tears.

“The letter also said that ‘New York' was responding beneficially, and mention was made of shares?”

“Yes,” Nicolette nodded. “And the second page showed that he was buying shares of the Denver & Rio Grande, and they were going up.”

“You need look no farther than the newspaper to see that Denver & Rio Grande shares have more than doubled in the past days,” Richardson said, pointing to a copy of the
Santa Fe New Mexican
on his desk. “At the same time, Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe share prices have fallen.”

“Then there is the matter of the two loose ends,” Nicolette reminded him. “That would certainly be the two men.”

“Assuming for a moment that everything else you've surmised is true, why then would killing the two thieves be so important?” Richardson asked.

“Maybe they were
all
involved somehow?” Nicolette suggested. “When I was out at Lamy, I heard them arguing as though they knew one another from before, and he seemed especially nervous that I had overheard them arguing. The other day, when we were talking about the robbers being brought to Santa Fe to stand trial, he was especially outspoken in saying that they should have been delivered dead rather than alive . . .
and
he did hire the man who later killed them.”

“As much as I am willing to grant the superiority of a ‘woman's intuition,' none of this constitutes what one might call evidence,” Richardson said.

“You don't believe me!” Nicolette exclaimed.

“I didn't say that,” Richardson asserted crossly. “I didn't say that I did not believe you. As you yourself pointed out as you were describing the letter, this is a matter of your word against his, and of the probability that his word would be considered more credible. In fact, I
am
inclined to believe you. I only lament the absence of anything sufficiently tangible to support the object of convincing anyone else.”

“Thank you. You have no idea how good it makes be feel to have someone think my story to be other than crazy.”

“Is there any chance of you getting your hands on that letter?”

“Surely he would find it missing.”

“There must be another angle,” the coroner said thoughtfully.

“Maybe . . . maybe you could ask Mr. Cole to help investigate . . . unless you believe
him
somehow involved?”

“No. I do not,” Richardson replied. “I was there when Mr. Waldron hired Mr. Cole. I watched their interaction. There was no hint of . . .
In fact . . .
now that I remember, Mr. Waldron was quite adamant when he said that the robbers were ‘wanted, dead or alive' that he preferred . . . he meant ‘
dead
.' Then, Mr. Cole delivered those two
alive
. So no, Mr. Cole is not a party to this cabal.”

“Then we shall ask Mr. Cole . . . no, we shall
hire
Mr. Cole,” Nicolette said excitedly. “I'll take my money, I'll convince Mama to let me take money out of the Refugio del Viajero to
hire
Mr. Cole to discover the
truth
.”

“He would probably do it gratis,” Richardson said. “
If
he were around.”

“What . . . where . . . ?”

“I doubt that we shall see Mr. Bladen Cole again,” Richardson said, his tone a bit wistful. “He has departed Santa Fe for good. He is on another quest. He has gone in search of the man who murdered his brother.”

Nicolette simply stared into space. She felt her shoulders slump. A moment ago, thoughts of the bounty hunter, long suppressed by her conscious mind, had come thundering back from her subconscious; like a knight in shining armor, he could be the very emblem of her deliverance. But just as quickly, he was gone.

Gone where? What quest could be more noble than to avenge the death of one's brother? Nicolette could think of but
one
. The most towering of tasks undertaken by knights under the code of chivalry—of which she had read in the storybooks—involved the knight and his lady, but she was not, alas, this knight's lady.

“
I almost forgot
,” Nicolette gasped in horror, as she thought of her bosom bewitch'd by a knight.

“What?”

“I'm supposed to be attending the theater with Mr. Waldron . . .
tonight
. How can I . . .”

“Just calm down,” Richardson advised. “Take a breath. You are the most composed young woman I know. Perhaps, while the production is ongoing, you'll think of something.”

“Perhaps I will. If I do have a brainstorm, I'll share it with you . . . as the Bard would say . . . anon.”

“What production are you seeing?” Richardson asked.

“
Macbeth
.”

“I see,” the coroner said with a droll expression.

“I know what you're thinking,” Nicolette said, sizing him up.

“What's that?”

“Something about irony . . . and something about the treachery which permeates that play.”

“A woman's intuition,” Richardson said with a smile.