Calamity Jane 10 Read online

  Having been let in through the rear entrance by the man whose information had caused her to pay the visit, the intruder had locked the door to prevent the guards who were patrolling around the building from discovering that it was no longer secured. She had, however, only used the lock and did not reclose the bolts. So, although she had to turn the key before she could leave, there was nothing else to delay her departure.

  Or so the young woman had assumed.

  With her left hand reaching for the key, the intruder heard the actor’s footsteps. A glance over her shoulder warned that he was not behaving as she had anticipated. Noticing his frightened expression and dazed appearance as she was leaving the dressing-room, she had expected that—even if he was too winded to be able to shout—he would do no more than go for help. By doing so, he would summon assistance to put out the fire. That was a point she had taken into consideration. While she was determined to prevent the money from being used for the purpose it had been intended, she did not wish to endanger other people’s lives. Whoever arrived would bring the blaze under control before it spread, but not quickly enough to avoid the damage and destruction she sought.

  A glance at Gorr-Kauphin’s rage-suffused features, then to the cutthroat razor in his right hand was all the woman needed to take in before she knew he had decided upon more positive action than was envisaged. What was just as apparent, having formed an accurate assessment of his character, he was as dangerous as a cornered rat. Nor would he allow considerations of her sex to prevent him from lashing out with the weapon he was carrying.

  However, in spite of being encumbered by the Kerry coat and parasol—although the latter would have offered an effective means of self protection under different conditions, the intruder was far from being the helpless victim the actor expected. Assessing the situation with neither fear nor panic, she concluded the way in which she could best defend herself. Swinging around on her left foot, she prepared to give another demonstration of how capably she had mastered savate.

  Gorr-Kauphin saw the woman turning to face him as he was ascending the stairs. Before he could fully appreciate the implications of her action, her right leg whipped up with devastating speed. Caught under the chin with the toe of the black Hessian boot, his head snapped back and seemed to become filled with brilliantly flashing, multi-colored lights.

  Thrown backwards by the power of the kick, the actor landed in a sitting posture on the floor. For a moment, searing pain ripped through him. He vaguely felt himself tilting onwards until the back of his head struck the unyielding stone surface with hardly diminished force. Then everything went black.

  While the intruder was neither callous nor uncaring about the well-being of others, knowing something of what Gorr-Kauphin and his companions had done since their arrival in Chicago and hoped to achieve in the future, she felt little concern over the injuries she knew he must have sustained. Completing the graceful pirouette which had enabled her to put her full power behind the kick, she unlocked the door. Hearing the commotion from the direction of the stage, she was satisfied that she could leave immediately and did not need to raise the alarm. Throwing open the door, she stepped into the alley and drew it closed behind her without a backward glance —

  Then saw somebody coming towards her!

  Watching with impatience until the other two occupants of the gentlemen’s toilet had finished their reason for being there and walked out, the dissident who had called himself “Patrick Aloysius Murphy” gave a low hiss of relief. Far from being a modest man, his purpose in the room could not be carried out while they were present. In spite of having a sound motive for wanting to leave as quickly as possible, finding them there was preventing him. However, he derived some satisfaction from their conversation which suggested his comments had ruined the real reason for the free entertainment.

  Waiting until the door had closed behind the pair, the dissident went to the only window. There was no exit as such from the toilet to the alley alongside the theater, the proprietors being too experienced to supply what could just as easily offer a means of unauthorized and unpaid admission. However, the window was large enough for the facilities receptacles to be passed out for emptying instead of having them removed via the booking hall.

  As the dissident had noticed on entering, the window was bolted but not locked. He would have preferred to see what, or who, might be in the alley before essaying his departure. Unfortunately, if understandably, the panes had been coated with a thick layer of black paint on each side to ensure the privacy of the toilet’s users. Realizing that it would be impossible for him to scrape a peephole, he drew the bolts and raised the lower half to peer out cautiously. Seeing nobody, he climbed through and dropped into the alley. On landing and turning to walk towards the rear of the building, he learned that his reconnaissance had not been sufficiently thorough.

  ‘Hey, you there!’ called a husky Irish voice from the front end of the building. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Looking around, “Murphy” discovered that the challenger was one of the men Phineas Branigan had patrolling around the theater. Close to six foot three in height, weighing well over two hundred pounds, the tight fit of his suit warned that little of his bulk was flabby fat. He had hair cut so short he appeared almost bald and his features were so battered that he had clearly fought many times. In his right hand was grasped a thick and knotted walking stick which he carried with no more effort than if it had been a slender twig.

  Such a man, the dissident realized, would be dangerous in the extreme. Even employing speed and scientific fighting methods, it would be difficult to deal with him silently unless he was taken by surprise. Given a chance, in addition to defending himself, he would create enough of a disturbance to bring the other lookout on the run to investigate.

  ‘Well now, darlin’.’ “Murphy” replied, standing sideways to the man and, as he had when talking with the doorkeepers inside the theater, putting his hands behind his back. ‘I found all that high-faluting talk so drying to the throat I reckoned I’d be slipping out for a drink.’

  ‘The Branigan told us that nobody was to leave while she’s gabbing,’ the lookout protested, lumbering closer with the ponderous menace of a bull elephant.

  ‘If that’s the way of it,’ “Murphy” answered, turning away without bringing his hands from beneath the jacket, ‘it’s going back in I’ll be.’

  ‘Hold on there!’ the lookout commanded, realizing that the young man should have swung in his direction if meaning to return to the theater. ‘That’s not the way!’

  ‘That it isn’t,’ “Murphy” admitted, starting to reverse his direction. Then he stared past the burly lookout as if at something menacing and snapped, ‘Behind you!’

  Having assessed the situation, the dissident had decided how he might cope with it. Not only had he been aware of the purpose behind the ‘entertainment’, he knew that money which was essential to the conspiracy was in one of the dressing-rooms. Having achieved his purpose by arousing suspicions and doubts about Vera Gorr-Kauphin’s motives, he hoped to be able to remove the means to finance the scheme in which she was participating. However, he was aware that time was of the essence and pulled an old trick in the hope of avoiding any further delay.

  Selected for brawn and blind obedience to orders rather than intellect, the burly lookout was taken in by “Murphy”’s behavior. Wondering who, or what, might be behind him, he swung around with surprising speed for one of his bulk.

  Casual as “Murphy”’s act of placing his hands behind his back had appeared to be, there was an anything but harmless reason for doing it. As soon as the lookout started to turn, his right fist emerged from the jacket and it was not empty. The weapon he grasped was a British-made Webley Royal Irish Constabulary .476 double action revolver with a two and a half inch barrel. He did not offer to use it as a firearm. Instead, he swung it upwards swiftly. On purchasing it, he had had the lanyard ring removed as an aid to concealment. W
hile this precluded it from being secured to his person, it was not rendered any less effective as a club. Driven against the back of the burly man’s skull, the base of the butt’s impact dropped him as if he had been pole-axed.

  Glancing around to make sure he had not been observed, “Murphy” decided to return the Webley before continuing his mission. To carry it in his hand was certain to arouse suspicion, even if he met somebody around the corner where his victim could not be seen. Slipping it into its holster, which was attached to his belt but tucked inside the waistband of his trousers, he rolled the unconscious lookout into the shadows and strode swiftly along the alley. Peering around the corner, he found nothing to disturb him.

  As “Murphy” was approaching the rear entrance to the theater, it began to open. Coming to a halt, his right hand went behind his back to close on the butt of the Webley. A figure was emerging through the door, illuminated by the flickering red glow of a fire somewhere inside. The Kerry coat it was donning showed a masculine black shirt, riding breeches and Hessian boots, but their wearer was undoubtedly feminine.

  At the sight of the man, the black clad young woman’s left hand went to the body of the parasol. Giving a twist, as she also shrugged off the Kerry coat, she separated it into two pieces and raised the handle portion in a threatening manner.

  ‘Well I’m blowed!’ “Murphy” ejaculated. His voice had lost its County Londonderry accent and he now spoke in the somewhat drawling manner of an upper class Englishman. ‘It’s the Rebel Spy!’

  ‘Land’s sakes, the Remittance Kid!’ the woman gasped, then she relaxed and lowered her right hand. ‘I didn’t know you were in Chicago.’

  ‘Nor I you, dear girl,’ “Murphy” replied, then nodded towards the doorway. ‘But something tells me we’re both here for much the same reason.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ the beautiful young woman conceded, bending to pick up the Kerry coat. ‘But I don’t think we’d better stay here to discuss it.’

  Three – You’re No Damned Use Here

  ‘Oh my God!’ Vera Gorr-Kauphin shrieked, skidding to a halt and staring horrified through the door of her dressing-room at the repository for her party’s finances. ‘How did this…?’

  Having taken in the sight which met her gaze as she was leading the way into the basement, the actress had demonstrated beyond any shadow of a doubt what she regarded as her priorities. Her brother was sprawling supine and motionless at the other end of the passage, but she had not given him more than a single glance while approaching from the stage entrance. In fact, such had been her sense of perturbation that ~ despite knowing it was a rear exit from O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theater—she attached no significance to the way the door at the top of the second flight of stairs was closing. Her sole concern was to find out what was burning in her dressing-room.

  “Father Matthew Devlin” was filled with an equal sensation of anxiety as he followed Vera. Never the politest of men, nor noted for excessive courtesy towards members of the opposite sex, he was even less so in the stress of his current emotions. Thrusting her aside as she came to a halt, he passed her. After glaring for a moment at the flames which were belching from the open leather trunk on the dressing-table, he started to go through the door. Obscenities of the vilest kind bubbled from him as the violent torrent of heat drove him back. Looking past him and into the room as he retreated, having made no attempt to follow, Raoul Fourmies did nothing more constructive than let out a horrified wail.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, go and fetch those goddamned buckets here!’ the impostor thundered, spinning around to glower at the artist. Although Fourmies continued to stare open-mouthed into the dressing-room, the four stagehands who had followed them down the stairs obeyed with alacrity. On the point of venting his rage over the artist’s lack of activity, another thought struck “Devlin” and he glared along the passage, snarling, ‘Where the hell’s Tinville?’

  ‘Isn’t he in there?’ Fourmies inquired.

  ‘Would I be asking if he was?’ the imposter thundered.

  ‘Perhaps he went …’ the artist commenced, noticing that the bogus priest’s rage filled voice had suggested less concern for Marcel Tinville’s welfare than regret over discovering he was not in the room. Realizing his own comment was not well received, he sought to divert the fury it was arousing by pointing along the passage and yelping, ‘What’s happened to Colin?’

  ‘Go and find out, you’re no damned use here!’ “Devlin” ordered, his bearing showing he neither knew nor cared what had happened to the young actor. Glancing to where the stagehands were approaching, he found that they at least were behaving in a sensible and practical manner. Returning his gaze to the scowling and resentful artist, he went on no less viciously, ‘Get the hell out of the way, damn you. You’re about as much use as an udder on a bull!’

  In one respect, circumstances were more favorable to the impostor and his fellow-conspirators than they had been of late. Since the great fire which had devastated much of Chicago on October the 8th and 9th, 1871, 11 the community’s businessmen in particular had become very conscious of what was entailed by such a disaster. Many of them, including the theater’s proprietors, had taken precautions to minimize the chance of a recurrence and installed equipment to help with such an emergency.

  On arriving in the passage, the theater’s employees had not awaited instructions. Each of them had collected two red painted buckets from the line of a dozen—eight of which were filled with water and the rest sand—ranged along the wall at the foot of the stairs down which they had descended and were hurrying towards the dressing-room.

  To give him his due, the bogus priest did much more than either the actress or the artist to try to salvage their endangered finances. Vera remained with her back pressed to the wall against which “Devlin” had shoved her, and Fourmies almost scuttled to where her brother was lying. Making a perfunctory examination and deciding he could do nothing for Gorr-Kauphin, he returned along the passage with the intention of seeing if Tinville was in the toilet.

  Snatching a fire bucket from the first stagehand to arrive, the impostor plunged into the dressing-room regardless of the heat. However, anxiety over the fate of the money in the trunk led him to act rashly. Without giving a thought to consequences, he hurled the water on to the flames. Instantly, it was transformed into a hissing cloud of steam which raised the temperature beyond human endurance and drove him to retreat.

  ‘Water’s no good!’ “Devlin” bellowed, backing hurriedly through the door and waving aside the proffered bucket. He had learned his lesson and did not intend to repeat the mistake, but realized there was insufficient means to quell the awesome volume of flames in the basement. ‘Give me the sand and fetch more of it.’

  The first part of the order was delayed while the impostor took out and soaked a large red bandana in one of the water-filled buckets, then he fastened it over his mouth and nostrils. With this done, he took a bucket of sand and returned to the fray. As he was entering the room, he saw that his second requirement was already being carried out.

  Even before various ordinances that were brought into being following the great fire, making such materials mandatory in the construction of new buildings, the theater had been made of bricks and stone. Its basement had been blasted out of solid rock, but the dividing walls and ceilings of the dressing-rooms were made of wood. So, aware of the possibility, the manager had sent sand-filled buckets downstairs and retained those containing water to be used if there was danger of the stage catching alight.

  In spite of the manager’s forethought and “Devlin”s’ example spurring the stagehands to follow his example, considerable effort and the expenditure of much sand was required to douse the flames. Bucket after bucket was thrown on them, until the highly inflammable substance poured into the trunk by the female intruder was buried and smothered. Once this was accomplished, after glowering at the onlookers who were gathered outside and looking through the slanting window, he t
hanked his helpers and sent them away to check that there was no danger of a fire breaking out elsewhere in the building.

  ‘Where have you been?’ the impostor snarled, as Fourmies came to the door of the dressing-room.

  ‘Looking for Marcel,’ the artist replied, having done so because he had considered it a safer occupation than helping to fight the fire. ‘He’s not in the toilet—’

  ‘Then go and tell Branigan to search the theater for him!’ “Devlin” commanded and, wanting to make an examination to discover the extent of damage to their finances, lowered his voice to supplement the order. ‘And have him keep everybody away from that damned window.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Vera gasped, a remembrance coming to her, as the artist hurried away. ‘That must have been Tinville I saw leaving as we were coming down here!’

  ‘You saw him?’ the impostor snarled, swinging towards the actress and remembering just in time that they had an audience, so holding his voice down.

  ‘I didn’t actually see him!’ Vera corrected, sounding just as angry even though she too had the presence of mind not to make it known to the men in the alley. ‘The back door was just closing and I didn’t see who had gone out, but it must have been him. Nobody else was down here.’

  ‘Then he must have—’ “Devlin” began, but the sound of footsteps approaching the dressing-room prevented him from continuing.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am … Father,’ the theater’s manager said, entering followed by a man in the uniform of a senior member of the Chicago Fire Department. ‘Chief Monoghan and his men have just got here.’