Texas Killers Page 4

  “Maybe he killed the hombre I’ve been dealing with,” Dusty suggested dryly.

  “Yeah,” Digbry agreed, so pleased with the thought that he had avoided arousing suspicion he failed to notice the irony in the small Texan’s tone. “Sure, Cap’n. That must be what’s happened.”

  Paying no attention to the marshal’s comment, Dusty considered the implications suggested by finding the money. Clearly “Luncher’s” principals had accepted “Rapido Clint’s” terms, but there might have been an even more urgent reason for him to be sought out than merely to confirm the deal. Perhaps the faction who had hired the Easterner had learned, or guessed, that the arrangements for the arrival of the Crown Prince had been changed. In which case, they could be wanting the assassination to take place earlier than was originally intended.

  Because of Crown Prince Rudolph’s popularity among his subjects, to whom he had promised sweeping reforms in Bosgravnia’s laws, the two factions who were plotting against him had each originally required that his death was to be made to appear accidental. However, as Oscar Schindler’s presence in the warehouse had suggested, the radical and anarchist contingent—having no desire to see their cause weakened by a beneficient régime—were now willing to let it be known he was murdered and hoped to lay the blame on the aristocrats. So it was possible that the latter coterie, who had no desire to see their power and authority diminished by the proposed reforms, might be contemplating a double bluff by asking for an obvious assassination which could be blamed upon their opponents.

  Unfortunately, “Luncher’s” killing had prevented Dusty from satisfying his curiosity. Nor, if his suspicions regarding their identity was correct, would the Easterner’s principals be fooled into thinking he was “Rapido Clint.” Digbry’s actions had closed the gate upon the means by which he had hoped to expose members belonging to one faction of the royal visitor’s enemies.

  Nothing of the small Texan’s feelings showed as he returned the money to the wallet and stood up. He was hard pressed to hide his revulsion where the corrupt peace officer was concerned, but forced himself to do so. There was still work for him to do and Digbry could help him. Although the anarchists had failed with Schindler and the aristocrats no longer could call upon the services of their go-between with the New York criminal organization, neither faction would allow the setbacks to make them give up. So the threats to the Crown Prince’s life were still far from over. However, he considered that his task would be far less difficult with Europe’s “premier assassin” lying dead in the warehouse.

  Thinking of Beguinage in conjunction with his earlier speculations, Dusty recollected a subject which had intrigued him in Brownsville. The assassin had killed one adherent of each faction and warned off others, which suggested he was not in the employ of either group. It seemed that there might be yet a third party with designs upon the life of the royal visitor.

  “You-all’d best hold on to this four hundred dollars,” the small Texan stated, holding out the wallet and laying great emphasis upon the sum of money it contained. Indicating the body, he went on, “Do you know where this jasper’s staying in town?”

  “No,” Digbry replied truthfully, although he was more concerned with trying to think of a way in which he might be able to convert at least a proportion of the wallet’s contents to lining his own pockets. “That informer of mine just said’s he’d seen him around the waterfront.”

  “Maybe your informer’s found out where he’s bedded down by now?” Dusty suggested, so helpfully that he might have believed such a person existed. “How about us going and asking if he has?”

  “Yeah, we could do th—” the marshal commenced. Then he produced a reasonably well simulated look and gesture of annoyance, going on, “Blast it, we can’t though. He left on that boat’s sailed this morning.”

  “Now isn’t that too bad,” Dusty consoled, making his pretence at resignation sound equally genuine. Nodding at the alley from which “Luncher” had come, he continued, “The shooting’ll bring folks and it’s best you and I aren’t seen together just now. I’ll drift along and sort of nose around for a spell to see if I can find anything about this yahoo. Say what you like about this, but don’t mention who I really am.”

  “Sure thing, Cap’n Fog,” Digbry assented, doubting whether the other would be any more successful than he had been in learning where the Easterner had been staying. “I’ll tend to things here. When’ll I be seeing you again?”

  “At the Blaby mansion for the reception, unless something turns up before then,” Dusty suggested, although the words came in the form of an order. “You-all can give the Governor that four hundred dollars and we’ll tell him all we’ve learned.”

  “Freddie, I would like to present you to the gentleman who is responsible for our safe delivery to Corpus Christie, Mr. Mark Counter,” Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia introduced. “Mr. Counter, the Right Honorable Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrove-Woodstole.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” the blond giant said, taking the hand that was extended and hoping his skill as a poker player would be sufficient to prevent his feelings from showing.

  Having a keen eye for members of the opposite sex, Mark had decided that the first of the two young women to land from the U.S.S. Nantucket’s thirty-six-foot launch was an exceptionally fine specimen. However, hearing her full name was adding to the puzzlement which he had experienced when the royal visitor had first spoken of her.

  Five feet seven in height, the young woman to whom Mark had been introduced was a honey blonde in her late twenties. She had a regal beauty which enhanced the patrician distinction of her features. Sensibly dressed in a brown tailored two-piece costume, her hair was drawn up into a large bun and held in place by a net at the back of her neck. The jacket was severely, almost masculinely, cut with no lace trimming. In spite of having an attached collar, the neck of her white shirt-blouse was decorously open. Showing from beneath the hem of the long, flared skirt were brown shoes which would be suitable for walking or riding on horseback. The attire neither concealed nor sought to show off a magnificent figure. Her whole bearing was suggestive of birth and breeding, implying self-confidence that was far from overbearing or snobbish.

  Whatever Mark’s misgivings might be with regard to the young woman, they were not shared by the crew of the Nantucket. When the scuttlebutt2 had passed around that a for-real, genuine English Lady—there had soon come to be a heavy emphasis on the capital “L”—and her maid were to be part of the Crown Prince’s entourage, there had been diverging views on the subject.

  Ever conservative, the older foc’s’le hands had been convinced that no good would come of the arrangement. It had been predicted gloomily by them that, even if bad luck failed to develop, there would be so many restrictions—such as smoking, chewing tobacco, spitting and the use of profanity all being prohibited—that life on board would not be worth living. Captain McKie had warned all hands to watch their language, state of dress and general behavior, but she had demonstrated a satisfying tolerance when a slip was made in her presence. Without letting it be considered that she was interfering with the ship’s discipline, the Lady had managed each time to intercede on the offender’s behalf and save him from punishment.

  Like the Crown Prince, the Lady had soon become a universal favorite. She had the rare quality of being able to associate with men, yet avoid raising hopes which could never reach fulfillment. Even the most barnacle-encrusted seadogs, officers and enlisted men alike, were willing to concede she made a better shipmate than they had anticipated. For all that, her exact status in the entourage remained a mystery. If it was for the purpose which came most readily to mind, there had been no evidence during the voyage. The marine sentries who were in a position to know claimed no clandestine meetings had taken place after nightfall. Nor were the foreign servants any more informative. They had insisted that the Lady was merely an acquaintance of their master, well connected in British society, to whom he had offered passage w
hen learning she wished to visit the United States. Such was her popularity that it went hard on the few who had dared cast doubts upon her virtue.

  In spite of various hopes expressed by some of the younger, more imaginative and lecherous of the foc’s’le hands, the Lady’s maid had proved as unattainable as her mistress. About the same age as the Lady, Florence Drakefield was some three inches shorter and had a buxom figure from which no formal black and white uniform could detract. Shortish red-blonde hair formed a curly halo to a pretty face bubbling with merriment. Yet, while friendly enough, she had never mingled with any section of the crew unless the circumstances were completely decorous. According to the entourage’s male servants, she was well able to ensure her wishes were respected regarding the avoidance of physical contact.

  “Charmed, Mr. Counter,” the Lady responded, studying the blond giant as they were shaking hands. “But you seem surprised and puzzled.”

  “Like I told His Highness, ma’am,” Mark replied. “I wasn’t expecting a lady along.”

  “I hope my being here won’t make things too difficult?” the Lady said, still watching the Texan quizzically. “But when I heard the rest of the party were being landed, I couldn’t resist the chance of setting foot on dry land again. Of course, if my presence is inconvenient, I can always go back on board—”

  “There’s no need for that, as long as you don’t mind riding in a chuck wagon instead of a carriage,” Mark drawled, glancing to where the launch’s crew and four men in military uniforms were unloading a small amount of baggage. “I’ll tell you why we asked for you to bring that from the ship while we’re walking to the wagon, sir.”

  “I had wondered about it,” the Crown Prince admitted. “Shall we go?”

  “Any time you’re ready,” Mark agreed.

  “Mr. Counter,” Liebenfrau put in. “I will be sending Captain von Farlenheim and three men as an advance guard.”

  “Do whatever you reckon’s best, Colonel,” Mark replied, showing no resentment. “Go through that gap and there’s a clear trail to the Coast Road.”

  “Send your three best men with Captain von Farlenheim, Mr. Richie,” Liebenfrau ordered. “Tell them to keep their eyes open. Have the rest help our servants with the baggage.”

  “You must excuse the Colonel,” Rudolph remarked, as he accompanied Mark and the Lady along the path a few yards behind the advance party. “His manner is abrupt, but he acts always with my best interests at heart.”

  “Why sure,” the blond giant replied, watching as von Farlenheim led the three sailors over a fair-sized tree trunk which had fallen across the trail. “He strikes me as being a right good man to have at your back.”

  “He’s all of that,” Rudolph declared, glancing over his shoulder to where Liebenfrau was following with Baron von Goeringwald. Then he indicated the dense woodland on either side of the trail. “Is this the kind of country we’ll be hunting in?”

  “Nope,” Mark answered. “We’ll be taking you to more open woods further inland, the sport’ll be better there.”

  “Did you select the landing place, Mr. Counter?” the Lady inquired.

  “No, ma’am,” the blond giant admitted. “Why?”

  “Nobody in the steam-sloop knew about it,” the young woman explained, gazing into the big Texan’s handsome face as if trying to read the thoughts behind it. “But I have the feeling that this isn’t the first time people—or goods—have been landed here.”

  “It isn’t,” Mark conceded. “Way I heard it, cargoes used to be dropped off here after they’d been run through the Yankee blockade during the war.”

  “Only during the war?” the Lady challenged, with a smile.

  “There’d be no call to run a blockade when one wasn’t being imposed,” Mark pointed out, also with a smile.

  “It would be a jolly useful place for smugglers to land contraband, though,” the Lady commented. “If you have such things in America, that is.”

  “I’ve heard tell of them,” Mark drawled, but had no intention of betraying a confidence by telling who had selected the landing place.

  “The reef looks to be unbroken from out at sea,” the Lady continued, hoping to satisfy more than a casual interest by keeping the blond giant talking. She sensed that he had misgivings where she was concerned and waited to learn what was causing them. “Unless one knew the secret—”

  While the discussion had been taking place, Rudolph had drawn slightly ahead of the Lady and the blond giant. Reaching the fallen tree, he noticed that the advance guard were turning a bend and had gained almost thirty yards lead on them. Then, as he stepped on to the fallen tree’s trunk, a figure erupted from among the bushes and alighted, drawing two long-barrelled Colt 1860 Army revolvers in a lightning fast motion, not twenty feet in front of him.

  Chapter 4

  WE DON’T NEED “CLINT” TO KILL RUDOLPH

  “SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS!” ALEX VON FARLENHEIM barked in explosive German, glaring across the table at his companion and speaking loudly enough to make the other dozen occupants of the Portside Hotel’s dining room look in their direction. “You gave ‘Breakast’ six hundred dollars as an advance payment?”

  Despite realizing that the successful outcome of the assassination plot depended upon working in close conjunction with the young Bosgravnian, but yet ever intolerant when her actions were questioned by somebody she regarded as being of inferior status, a frown briefly creased the beautiful features of Charlene, Comtesse de Petain. Coming and going swiftly, but not unnoticed, it served as a warning—although he needed none—of the hardness that lay beneath the expression of the somehow seductive innocence which returned and supplied a clue to her true, ruthless nature.

  Slightly over five foot seven in height, Charlene’s creamy-skinned face and the firm-fleshed “hourglass” contours of her statuesque figure made her seem considerably younger than her actual age of thirty-five. Nor could the “walking-out day dress” she had on conceal the eye-catching, voluptuous curves. Not that it was intended to do so. Despite being more decorous in lines, the tight cream jacket-bodice—its long basque forming an overskirt—displayed the mound of her bosom and slender mid-section as effectively as a ball gown with an extreme décolleté. The primrose-yellow waistcoat-front’s V-neckline had no chemisette to form a high ruffle collar. Fitting snugly at the elbows, the three-quarter-length sleeves opened out to end in large frilled cuffs and long suede gloves emerged from them. Caught up at the sides, the long-trained overskirt had its front falls taken into pleated draperies. Worn low over the forehead in a frizzy fringe, her brunette hair was brushed back into a chignon which left her ears uncovered. The straw hat perched on it had a wide, brim and small crown with ribbon trimmings which passed beneath the chignon and formed a shawl-shape around her neck. Lying on the table were her folded primrose and blue parasol and a large matching fan.

  Apart from his attire being civilian and the scars on his cheeks forming a slightly different pattern, von Farlenheim’s physical appearance was almost identical to that of his cousin Fritz—two years his senior—who was accompanying Crown Prince Rudolph. A white straw “planter’s” hat, bought in Brownsville as being better suited to the local climate, was on the table in front of him. He had on a tight-fitting, waist-long brown jacket, frilly bosomed white silk shirt and a dark blue cravat of the same material. Figure-hugging, his tan-colored riding breeches disappeared into well-polished black Hessian boots. His weapon belt was of the Bosgravnian Army’s pattern, carrying a Colt Cavalry Peacemaker in its holster, but without a saber attached to its slings. All in all, his garments emphasized a masculine virility as effectively as the Comtesse’s costume proclaimed her feminine pulchritude. Like her, he made use of his physical attributes as a means of attaining his ends with members of the opposite sex.

  “It would be advisable to keep your voice down, Alex,” Charlene suggested, forcing herself to speak in something milder than the tone she wished to employ. Her German was fluent, but with a notic
eable French accent. “Somebody might be able to understand you. I would have consulted you if there had been time, although the Council have given me their authority to act as I see best for our Cause. But when ‘Breakast’ told me that the man ‘Clint’ would accept no other terms, I had to agree to make sure that we secured his services.”

  “Why do we need him?” von Farlenheim demanded, but in a much lower voice.

  Sitting ramrod straight in his chair, the young Bosgravnian showed little sign of having been mollified by the Comtesse’s explanation. To one of his upbringing and mentality, the suggestion that a member of the “weaker sex” should be other than subservient and in a subordinate capacity was practically heresy. So he had never been enamored of the knowledge that, as she had just reminded him, to all intents and purposes their fellow conspirators had appointed her—a Frenchwoman—as his superior in the attempt to assassinate their country’s hereditary ruler. He was aware that she had not hesitated to make major decisions without consulting him in the past. Furthermore, he suspected that on this occasion she had deliberately delayed contacting him until after she had made her arrangements with the man they knew as “Gustav Breakast.”

  Up until the matter which had elicited von Farlenheim’s indignant comment, despite neither of them having any liking for the other, his first meeting with Charlene since his arrival in Corpus Christie had been progressing amicably. Nor had the condition been brought about entirely by a mutual remembrance that they would have to work in better harmony than had been the case of late.

  Various events in Brownsville had produced unsatisfactory results. While the blame for some of the mishaps could be laid upon the Comtesse, von Farlenheim was aware that on one occasion at least he too had failed to show in a good light. When he had been rendered hors de combat by a trio of drunken cowhands, it had fallen upon Mark Counter to save Charlene from being molested by them. Claiming that doing so would offer an opportunity to gather information, she had used the incident to make the blond giant’s closer acquaintance and had travelled to Corpus Christie in his company. Declining an invitation to go with him to collect the horses for use on the hunting expedition, she had taken advantage of his absence to meet and bring von Farlenheim up to date on what had happened since their separation in Brownsville.