Scene Thirty-One:
The cloakroom off the kitchens of the Royal Hotel was just the sort of elegant side room that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have. Although never entered by any but the hotel staff, it was decorated in the same creamy colors as the finest staterooms upstairs. The cut crystal vase on the delicate table in the middle of the floor always contained freshly cut flowers. Graceful side chairs that could have ornamented the boudoirs of royalty were scattered about, their striped cushions in pale green and dull gold. The sole occupant of the room perched stiffly on one of them.
Elliott Marston stood on the threshold and examined him. He was just the sort of person that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have working in the stable, if the regular employees were taken ill and anyone at all would do. He was an old man, with a lined and weathered face and scruffy white hair. His palms rested on his knees, then ran along his legs, then clasped in front of him before finally being shoved in his pockets. He jumped to his feet as Marston entered.
"You Sam Flanagan?" He rushed into speech, thrusting the question ahead of him like a battering ram.
"No." Marston decided that it would do no harm to maintain a superior manner. "He's dead. What do you want him for?"
The old man seemed genuinely surprised. He blinked rapidly for a moment, then stared at the floor. Marston waited patiently.
"I got some news for Flanagan." He seemed reluctant to accept the news he'd just heard.
"Well, that's too bad. We buried him this morning." Marston walked to the loveseat under the small oil painting between the windows. He seated himself, then pulled one of his cigars out of his pocket. The old man stared at it and licked his lips. "Who are you?"
"Crabbs, the name's Hiram Crabbs." He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the cigar, watching intently as Marston lit it and inhaled the smoke. "Me and Ches Watters, we was real close. Ches told me a lot of stuff." Crabbs' eyes turned cunning. "Thought Flanagan might like to hear it."
"Flanagan couldn't care less right now." Marston exhaled and watched the ash glow hotly. "But I might be interested."
"I heared your name. You're Marston, the rancher." Crabbs pointed a shaking finger at him. "You're the one what shot poor Ches."
"What's your news?"
"Ches and me went drinking the night before you -" Marston looked up with a mean eye. The old man flinched. "I mean, before he was killed. He wanted to meet Flanagan real bad."
"I heard he wanted Flanagan to do some work for him. Work Flanagan wasn't interested in." Marston sprawled back on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. His air of ennui seemed to annoy his visitor.
"Yes, well, that's what you think. But I know different." Crabbs sidled up to Marston and leaned forward confidentially. A powerful aroma of cheap whiskey smote the air. "Ches did it for a favor for someone. Someone who wanted Flanagan some bad." He leaned back and leered for a moment, his mouth revealing black stumps where some of his teeth used to be.
"Who?" Marston gazed up through half-closed eyes at the cigar smoke drifting up in a lazy spiral.
The old man's grin broadened. "How much?"
"You're annoying me." He blew another cloud and watched its progress.
"It were somebody real big who had it in for Flanagan. He was real mad that Ches couldn't get Flanagan to agree to a meeting so's that Flanagan could be killed. Ches said," Crabbs paused and looked over his shoulder at the open door. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Ches said the man hated Flanagan for years." He stepped back and tried to gauge the effect of his words.
Marston returned the other's scrutiny. It wasn't likely that the old man had any real information about Watters' business. But he might know a name. Whether he was prepared to surrender it easily was still to be determined.
"In other words, you don't know anything. You're wasting my time." Marston stood up suddenly, his fluid movement startling the old man into skittering back a few steps. He reached into his vest and drew out a gold coin between two fingers so it could be seen. Crabbs stared at it hungrily. "And I haven't got all day."
"I'll give you the name of the man who Ches dealt with. But I want one hundred gold pieces. Then I can tell you."
"You must be joking." Marston replaced the coin in his pocket. He strode to the door. "Now you'd better leave before you get thrown out of here."
"Look, Marston, I ain't fooling you. This man, he's important in this town." Crabbs moved to block the exit, his arms extended on either side. "You don't understand -"
Marston pushed his way past. He fully expected the old man's greed to work in his favor. Crabbs followed him down the hall, huffing almost tearfully, entreating that attention be paid. They entered the lobby, empty save for hotel employees who looked outraged at this violation of the Royal's portals.
"Please listen to me!" Crabbs grabbed Marston's arm and pulled him to a halt. "You got to - " He froze in mid-sentence, staring in horror to the street beyond.
Marston glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw nothing to evoke such a reaction. The crowded sidewalk was full of shoppers as usual. Horses and wagons crowded the road beyond them. He looked back at his visitor.
Crabbs let go of his arm and backed slowly away from him. His eyes were glassy were fear and he cowered back as he retreated. Then he whirled on his heel and rushed to the back of the hotel, finally running through the service entrance to the stableyard beyond.
Marston turned and marched outside to scan the street. The shoppers were still there along with some businessmen leaving their offices after working late. Two soldiers were tying up their horses at the tavern across the road and carters were unloading sacks from the back of a large wagon in the ally beyond. One of the laborers glanced up at the hotel and then went back to work.
Marston frowned thoughtfully and returned to the lobby. He had the strangest feeling that something had just slipped through his fingers.
And it was not a feeling he liked.
The cloakroom off the kitchens of the Royal Hotel was just the sort of elegant side room that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have. Although never entered by any but the hotel staff, it was decorated in the same creamy colors as the finest staterooms upstairs. The cut crystal vase on the delicate table in the middle of the floor always contained freshly cut flowers. Graceful side chairs that could have ornamented the boudoirs of royalty were scattered about, their striped cushions in pale green and dull gold. The sole occupant of the room perched stiffly on one of them.
Elliott Marston stood on the threshold and examined him. He was just the sort of person that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have working in the stable, if the regular employees were taken ill and anyone at all would do. He was an old man, with a lined and weathered face and scruffy white hair. His palms rested on his knees, then ran along his legs, then clasped in front of him before finally being shoved in his pockets. He jumped to his feet as Marston entered.
"You Sam Flanagan?" He rushed into speech, thrusting the question ahead of him like a battering ram.
"No." Marston decided that it would do no harm to maintain a superior manner. "He's dead. What do you want him for?"
The old man seemed genuinely surprised. He blinked rapidly for a moment, then stared at the floor. Marston waited patiently.
"I got some news for Flanagan." He seemed reluctant to accept the news he'd just heard.
"Well, that's too bad. We buried him this morning." Marston walked to the loveseat under the small oil painting between the windows. He seated himself, then pulled one of his cigars out of his pocket. The old man stared at it and licked his lips. "Who are you?"
"Crabbs, the name's Hiram Crabbs." He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the cigar, watching intently as Marston lit it and inhaled the smoke. "Me and Ches Watters, we was real close. Ches told me a lot of stuff." Crabbs' eyes turned cunning. "Thought Flanagan might like to hear it."
"Flanagan couldn't care less right now." Marston exhaled and watched the ash glow hotly. "But I might be interested."
"I heared your name. You're Marston, the rancher." Crabbs pointed a shaking finger at him. "You're the one what shot poor Ches."
"What's your news?"
"Ches and me went drinking the night before you -" Marston looked up with a mean eye. The old man flinched. "I mean, before he was killed. He wanted to meet Flanagan real bad."
"I heard he wanted Flanagan to do some work for him. Work Flanagan wasn't interested in." Marston sprawled back on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. His air of ennui seemed to annoy his visitor.
"Yes, well, that's what you think. But I know different." Crabbs sidled up to Marston and leaned forward confidentially. A powerful aroma of cheap whiskey smote the air. "Ches did it for a favor for someone. Someone who wanted Flanagan some bad." He leaned back and leered for a moment, his mouth revealing black stumps where some of his teeth used to be.
"Who?" Marston gazed up through half-closed eyes at the cigar smoke drifting up in a lazy spiral.
The old man's grin broadened. "How much?"
"You're annoying me." He blew another cloud and watched its progress.
"It were somebody real big who had it in for Flanagan. He was real mad that Ches couldn't get Flanagan to agree to a meeting so's that Flanagan could be killed. Ches said," Crabbs paused and looked over his shoulder at the open door. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Ches said the man hated Flanagan for years." He stepped back and tried to gauge the effect of his words.
Marston returned the other's scrutiny. It wasn't likely that the old man had any real information about Watters' business. But he might know a name. Whether he was prepared to surrender it easily was still to be determined.
"In other words, you don't know anything. You're wasting my time." Marston stood up suddenly, his fluid movement startling the old man into skittering back a few steps. He reached into his vest and drew out a gold coin between two fingers so it could be seen. Crabbs stared at it hungrily. "And I haven't got all day."
"I'll give you the name of the man who Ches dealt with. But I want one hundred gold pieces. Then I can tell you."
"You must be joking." Marston replaced the coin in his pocket. He strode to the door. "Now you'd better leave before you get thrown out of here."
"Look, Marston, I ain't fooling you. This man, he's important in this town." Crabbs moved to block the exit, his arms extended on either side. "You don't understand -"
Marston pushed his way past. He fully expected the old man's greed to work in his favor. Crabbs followed him down the hall, huffing almost tearfully, entreating that attention be paid. They entered the lobby, empty save for hotel employees who looked outraged at this violation of the Royal's portals.
"Please listen to me!" Crabbs grabbed Marston's arm and pulled him to a halt. "You got to - " He froze in mid-sentence, staring in horror to the street beyond.
Marston glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw nothing to evoke such a reaction. The crowded sidewalk was full of shoppers as usual. Horses and wagons crowded the road beyond them. He looked back at his visitor.
Crabbs let go of his arm and backed slowly away from him. His eyes were glassy were fear and he cowered back as he retreated. Then he whirled on his heel and rushed to the back of the hotel, finally running through the service entrance to the stableyard beyond.
Marston turned and marched outside to scan the street. The shoppers were still there along with some businessmen leaving their offices after working late. Two soldiers were tying up their horses at the tavern across the road and carters were unloading sacks from the back of a large wagon in the ally beyond. One of the laborers glanced up at the hotel and then went back to work.
Marston frowned thoughtfully and returned to the lobby. He had the strangest feeling that something had just slipped through his fingers.
And it was not a feeling he liked.