Wanted! Belle Starr! Read online

  “Will here be all right?” the receiver hinted, crossing to sit on the bed with the case by his side.

  “Wherever you wish,” Darlene-Mae assented, going to the dressing-table. “I had the brandy brought up while you were away, being so sure you would be successful. I trust what they brought is a satisfactory vintage. Is that what it is called?”

  “One doesn’t usually refer to the vintage of a brandy,” Icke corrected, looking at the bottle for which the blonde was reaching. Neither it, nor the tray and two glasses had been on the dressing-table when he had left to visit the bank. “But it’s the best brand they have in the hotel.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” the blonde claimed. “I know so little about such things and I do so want us to have the best.”

  “You got it there,” the receiver assured, watching the bottle being uncorked by his hostess. “But wasn’t there something said about me getting a hug and a kiss for saving your half-brother?”

  “Why there most certainly was,” Darlene-Mae affirmed. “Although it seems such a small price to pay for having poor Dennis’s good name saved from being besmirched. I’m sure my family would feel you deserve a far better reward than just a hug and a kiss from lil ole me.”

  “What better reward could anybody ask than that?” Icke asked.

  “But it’s so little!” the blonde protested. “I know a gentleman like you would be offended if I was to offer you money on behalf of Dennis and the rest of the family, but perhaps we can think of something else?”

  While carrying out the conversation, Darlene-Mae had opened the bottle. Pouring out two liberal quantities, she set it back on the tray and took up the two glasses. If her guest had been watching closely, he still might have failed to detect the small white tablet which she had been palming as deftly as a magician specializing in sleight of hand being slipped into the drink on the left. Moving both glasses in a rotating motion, apparently trying to duplicate how she had seen it done when serving such a liquor, she speeded the process of dissolving.

  “Not that it matters and I certainly didn’t help your half-brother with any idea of being rewarded,” Icke said, trying to sound sincere in the declaration. “But what else did you have in mind?”

  “Heavens to Betsy, I’ve no idea,” the blonde replied, eyeing the receiver coyly and yet also conveying an impression that she had given thought to the form of reimbursement. “I’ve never before been involved in any such a thing. However, shall we drink our toast first?” She paused, but did not allow time for anything to be said by her guest. “My old daddy always used to claim a drink made a kiss so much more enjoyable.”

  “Then who are we to argue with the wisdom of your daddy?” Icke inquired cheerfully, feeling even more certain that the seduction he was planning would be a sinecure. Accepting the left hand glass, but seeing not the slightest trace of the addition to its contents, he went on, “Do you want to propose the toast, or shall I?”

  “Why not you first, then I’ll propose one in return?” Darlene-Mae suggested.

  “Ladies first, I always say,” the receiver countered.

  “Very well,” the blonde agreed. “There was something else my old daddy used to say, though for the life of me I can’t imagine what he meant. He always claimed that, if you wanted to know what kind of lover a man is, watch him drink and, should he drain off his glass straight away, you’ll know he’s a good one.”

  “That sounds excellent advice to me,” Icke declared, suspecting the beautiful Southron was less innocent and naive than she seemed. However, the supposition did not cause him any concern at that moment. It merely led him to believe his plans for the immediate future, as she appeared to be compliant and even eager to provoke what he had in mind, would be so much easier. “And we should drink to it!”

  “So we will, eventually,” Darlene-Mae promised, raising her glass. “First, however, let’s drink to the success you had at the bank and may we both get what we want.”

  “I’m all for the last!” the receiver asserted eagerly. Wanting to impress the blonde, he raised and drained his glass. Coughing a little, he noticed something which caused him to say, “Aren’t you drinking?”

  “I’ll finish it in a moment,” Darlene-Mae answered, having merely wet her lips on the glass of brandy she was holding. Placing it on the tray from which it had come, she reached up to start unfastening the neck of the white silk blouse she wore. “But I feel just a little warm and thought, providing you don’t object of course, I would make myself a little more comfortable first.”

  “Now why should I object to the—!” Icke commenced, then frowned and stared as if at something which was moving. Blinking his eyes, which were becoming glazed, he tried and failed to stop the glass slipping from his fingers. A look of dull alarm mingled with puzzlement came to his face and, trying to shove himself erect, he continued, “Wha—Wha—Whash—Whash hap—happen—?”

  Before the question could be completed, the receiver crumpled backwards to lay half on and half off the bed breathing stentoriously.

  “You’ve been drugged is what’s happened, you Yankee son-of-a-bitch!” the beautiful blonde explained, her face and voice as coldly implacable as that of a judge sentencing a criminal to a death that was well deserved. “But that’s only the start of your troubles!”

  Chapter Twelve – I’ve Got To You Too Late

  For several seconds after consciousness returned, David Icke felt as if he was being twirled around and up and down rapidly. Having forced apart lids reluctant to obey the dictates of his mind, he closed his eyes quickly to block off the dazzling effect of a bright light from somewhere in the center of the whirling vortex above him. Then the sensation of dizziness began to ebb away. As this happened, he found his faculties were starting to function. Apart from a slightly unpleasant taste in the mouth and a temporary lapse of memory, the comment made by Darlene-Mae Abernathy after he had passed out notwithstanding, the potion added without his knowledge to his brandy was producing no serious after effects.

  With the settling down of his emotions, a careful peek and a few seconds of thought informed the receiver that he was lying on a bed in a room much like the one he had rented at the Railroad House Hotel in Mulrooney, Kansas. It was much tidier than he kept his own, however. The previous discomfort to his optic nerves, he discovered, had resulted from nothing more than a somewhat anemic lamp suspended from the ceiling.

  Slowly a recollection of the events which had occurred immediately prior to his collapse on the bed, began to force itself upon Icke!

  Snarling a profanity, the receiver thrust himself into a sitting position and gazed wildly about him!

  The beautiful blonde Southron, upon whose virtue assuming it was still intact and unsullied Icke had had licentious designs, was nowhere to be seen!

  Nor, a glance followed by a more carefully scrutiny informed the receiver, was the leather dispatch case containing the fifteen thousand dollars’ purchase price for the jewelry he had been offered on the bed where he had placed it!

  There was even worse to come!

  Having risen from the bed, meaning to commence what he suspected was going to prove a vain attempt to find the case lying on the floor, Icke noticed in passing his reflection in the mirror on the dressing-table. Continuing to glare elsewhere, something he had noticed caused him to return his gaze to it. For a moment, apart from the not unexpected expression of shock and alarm on his pallid now ashy features, he could discern nothing to suggest what had partially attracted his attention.

  Then the receiver realized something definitely was not as it should be!

  A close look informed Icke there was no longer a gold chain suspended between the pockets of his vest. Grabbing fingers quickly ascertained that it and the watch to which it was attached had both gone. Goaded by the consternation which the discovery was causing, his hands scrabbled hastily at the inside pockets of his jacket. It was as he had feared. His well-filled wallet had also been taken by the blonde; but somet
hing far, far, more important was missing.

  Aware that his illicit occupation might be exposed to the authorities one day, creating a need for immediate flight, Icke always took certain precautions against that eventuality. One of these was to keep in his possession at all times a red morocco leather pocketbook containing the relevant details concerning all his secret bank accounts. Discovering that it too had been taken by Darlene-Mae Abernathy. was an even more shattering blow than the loss of the case he had retrieved from the National Trust Bank, his gold watch and chain and the wallet containing all his ready money, except for the change in his trousers pockets.

  While the details of where the accounts were deposited, the aliases employed and all the other necessary information, were written in a code of his own devising, the receiver realized this was far from an inviolable system of protection. Regardless of possessing a high opinion of his own intelligence, he was willing under the current deeply disturbing circumstances to admit someone else might be sufficiently astute to decipher what he had written. Furthermore, he could not recollect enough of the details to enable him to make contact with the various banks and give orders to prevent withdrawals until he was in a position to transfer the money elsewhere. To make matters much worse, even at his home, he did not have any other record to supply the requisite information.

  On the point of dashing out to send for Stephen Forey and Lee Potter to come and join him, a thought struck Icke. Telling himself he was merely wasting his time, but in a frame of mind eager to grasp at straws no matter how unproductive they were likely to be, he started to search the room to see if he could find some clue to help locate the beautiful blonde. Apart from a woman’s long and hooded black cloak hanging upon a peg in the big wardrobe, there was nothing left to prove, she had even been in occupation. The clock on the wall informed him it was seven forty-five and, although the drapes were drawn, various noises coming through the partially open window implied this was evening and not morning.

  Donning his cloak and leaving the room, no better informed about the woman calling herself ‘Darlene-Mae Abernathy’ than when he had entered except for believing this was unlikely to be her name and knowing she had tricked him the receiver hurried down to the ground floor. Crossing the reception lobby, he was about to ask for a bellboy to deliver a message summoning his bodyguards when he saw the clerk gazing past him with a pained expression. Hearing the name by which he was registered spoken from his rear, in a slightly guttural accent such as he had become accustomed to during the period of his life spent in Oklahoma, he turned. Coming towards him was a tall, lean and Indian-dark man dressed and armed after the fashion of the cowhands he had seen around Mulrooney.

  “Are you speaking to me?” Icke asked, always wary when in contact with anybody who sounded like a native of Oklahoma and alert for any suggestion that he had been recognized from the time he spent there.

  “I’m not meaning that lard-gutted hombre back of the bar there, looking like he’s all scared I’m going to start wide-looping the spittoons,” the newcomer answered, directing a sardonic nod at the desk clerk. “And, less there’s two looks and dresses’s fancy, you’re that same ‘Mr. Wilson’ as I’ve seen around town with Stevie Forey and Lee Potter. But, happen you ain’t him, say no ’n’ I’ll quit wasting my time.”

  “I’m the same,” the receiver confirmed, unable to detect any suggestion of recognition from the past and hoping he was not being addressed by a member of the gang who had offered to sell him the stolen jewelry. He could not think of any other reason for the visit. “What can I do for you?”

  “I reckon’s how that’d be something you’d rather listen to where there ain’t no ears a-wagging ’n’ a-flapping to take it all in,” the Oklahoman stated, his dark features being indicative of Indian blood, once again favoring the man behind the reception desk with a nod. “Like over in that fancy bar-room.”

  “Come with me,” Icke ordered and, leading the way, selected a table clear of the other occupants. Sitting down and waving away the waiter who started to approach, he went on, “Well, what is it?”

  “I reckon I’ve got to you too late,” the Oklahoman asserted, studying the haggard face of his obviously reluctant host.

  “Too late for what?”

  “To warn you about ‘Gold-Brick Annie O’Toole’ and her sister.”

  “Who the hell are they?”

  “You likely never looked twice at Winnie O’Toole, her being what I’d call’s homely as a mud fence. But the ‘Gold-Brick’s’ that real purty blonde haired gal’s been living here calling herself, ‘Darlene-Mae Abernathy’.”

  “Why do you call her ‘Gold-Brick’?” Icke demanded, although he could guess.

  “It’s ’cause she goes ’round selling gold bricks from her daddy’s mine, only it comes out he’s mining lead with gold paint on it; or other things that ain’t what they look like, to fellers’s don’t have enough sense to pack sand into a rat-hole. She’s what I’ve heard tell’s called a ‘conjuneero’.”

  “A god-damned confidence trickster!” the receiver spat out, despite never having heard such a term for a criminal following that particular vocation.

  “Between ’em, the ‘Gold-Brick’ ’n’ her sister are about the best around,” confirmed the Oklahoman. “I knowed they must be on the trail of some poor son-of-a-bitch when I saw ’em all fancied up like a rich gal and her maid. So they took you down, huh?”

  “Took me down?” Icke growled, trying to behave as if he could not comprehend the meaning of the question.

  “I know you big city jaspers don’t spend a whole heap of time out in the sun,” the Indian-dark visitor elaborated dryly. “But your face’s whiter’n a dead fish’s belly ’n’ you look some sicker’n a deacons’s drunk Taos Lightning ’stead of holy water. Yes sir, mister. They took you down and likely left you drugged. I should’ve figured’s how they’d got set to bring down whoever they was after when I saw them having their gear moved out this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Right after you’d come out and was high-tailing it to the bank.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop them?”

  “The last feller’s got took with such a notion didn’t tote it no furthern to get put under a lil wooden cross in boot hill mister. Which I wasn’t figuring on taking the chance on joining him when I didn’t know’s I’d get paid should I pull it off.”

  “So they’ve left town, have they?” Icke snarled, deciding the dark faced and dangerous looking man had something more in mind than merely supplying the information given up to that point.

  “I said they’d lit a shuck out of this here fancy rooming house, was all,” corrected the Oklahoman.

  “You mean they’re still in Mulrooney?”

  “I mean nothing else but they’re still here in Mulrooney.”

  “And you can tell me whereabouts?”

  “Now isn’t that the god-damned strangest thing?” the Oklahoman drawled, leaning back in his chair, his face taking on a crafty expression. “I could’ve swored’s how I knowed where they was, when I come in here. But, dog-my-cats, if it hasn’t gone plumb out of my mind!”

  “Would five dollars help you remember?” Icke asked, having that much in coins left in the pockets of his trousers.

  “Mister,” the visitor answered, straightening up with an expression of disdain. “If that’s all you reckon what they’ve took you for is worth—!”

  “I’ve got some money in my room,” the receiver said bitterly, although the currency to which he was referring was more readily available even than that. Another of his precautions against the need for a hurried departure was always to keep a one hundred dollar bill in the hollow built into each heel of whichever shoes or boots he was currently wearing. “But I’m not going to hand any of it over until I’m sure you’re not just trying to put something over on me.”

  “You don’t put much trust in other folks, do you?”

  “I’m not a sucker, if that�
�s what you mean. And, if it comes down to a point, I don’t know anything about you. Not even your name.”

  “They do tell even my own pappy never knowed that,” the Oklahoman drawled. “Which being, you wouldn’t know whether I’d spoke truthful or just given you a summer name. Anyways, this I’ll give you for starters, mister. They’re hiding out in a shack I can show you down to the poor folks’ end of town. At least, Winnie’s there. The ‘Gold-Brick’s’ gone off with some good looking young feller and, happen I’ve heard right about her hot-assed ways, she won’t be back for a fair spell.”

  “Can you find Forey and Potter for me while I’m getting your money?” Icke requested, concluding he would prefer to have his bodyguards available before going anywhere with the Indian-dark and savage featured man.

  “Sure, happen you don’t mind hanging around for ’em until tomorrow at the soonest.”

  “Why do I have to do that?”

  “They got word’s how some jasper from Boston’s you’ve sent ’em after’s hid out over to Brownton ’n’ve took the train up there to pick up his toes like you telled ’em.”

  “God damn them for stupid bastards!” the receiver spat out furiously, forgetting he had given instructions for the pair to take whatever measures should prove necessary to find and kill Geoffrey Crayne. Then he was struck by another thought. Being of an untrusting persuasion, he was not enamored of the idea of sending them to retrieve his money. It was a task, he concluded, which would be best handled personally. Therefore, giving a shrug, he continued in a less hostile fashion, “Oh well, it can’t be helped. If you’ll wait here until I’ve fetched the money for you, you can show me where they’re hiding and leave the rest of it to me.”

  “You won’t get no argument with me about doing that,” the Oklahoman declared. “Because I wasn’t figuring on locking horns with ’em. They might only be women, but I’d sooner tangle with a starving grizzly b’ar than them two!”

  “Are they that dangerous!” Icke asked, impressed by the somber way in which the comment had been made.