Chapter Twenty Three
Murdoch paced the floor of the parlor like a caged animal. He would reach one end and glower at Sam, then reach the other end and glower at Weatherly.
"I never should have let them go alone," he barked. "Short hair isn't enough to disguise Johnny if someone is looking for him. And that damn cast… I never should have let them go."
"You heard Scott," Sam said. "You would stick out like a sore thumb around here.Let them do what they have to do. This is Scott's territory. He knows his way around Boston."
Weatherly cleared his throat softly. "Sir, if I may be so bold as to say…"
Murdoch swung around on him. "Spit it out, man. If you've got something to say, say it. Where I come from, I expect my men to follow orders, but I never expect them to kowtow to me. I don't need anyone bowing at my feet like Harlan did. Besides, the way I see it, when Scott isn't around you are in charge."
A myriad of emotions crossed the old servant's face, none stronger than a sense of dignity as he pulled back his shoulders and faced Murdoch head on. "I understand that your western ways are more relaxed than our eastern ways, Mr. Lancer. However, I am proud to be a servant in this house. I have been here for more than thirty years. This household, when it was still a household, ran smoothly because of my expertise. You may see my actions and manner of speech as – how did you put it – kowtowing to you, but I am only giving you the respect you deserve as a guest in this house. And I would expect the same courtesy."
It wasn't often Murdoch felt himself speechless, but Weatherly had stunned him. A slow smile lifted the corners of Murdoch's mouth. "I stand corrected," he said. "What were you about to say before my mouth and my temper got the better of me?"
"Am I dreaming?" Sam asked, staring at Murdoch. "Did you just admit you were wrong? There must be something in this Boston air."
Weatherly had the good manners not to laugh, but simply said, "I have no clothes here that would fit you, and to be blunt, just passing through that front door would bring unwanted attention to this house. Mr. Scott is very resourceful and I'm sure Mr. Johnny is as well."
Murdoch returned to pacing. Stopping suddenly, he turned back to Weatherly.
"The man who hired those two in Omaha to get rid of Scott, how could he be there if he was killed along with Garrett?"
"Masters lingered for a few days after the accident, but the doctor was unable to revive him. I attended the burial service myself. I have no doubt that it was Masters in that coffin."
"Then who was in Omaha?" Sam asked.
"I am sure it would not be hard to find someone with a scar across his cheek," Weatherly pointed out. "With the right clothes, he could easily pass for Masters if you didn't know the real Masters."
"But why go to so much trouble? No one needed to know who hired those two in Omaha. Everything that happened leads straight back here. Why?"
"To point the finger at the most likely suspect," Sam offered.
Murdoch nodded. "Weatherly."
"Very good, Mr. Lancer."
Murdoch spun around, startled at the sight of three men standing in the parlor doorway, all three with guns drawn and pointed towards himself, Sam and Weatherly.
"I'm rather surprised, Mr. Lancer. I didn't think you would be so perceptive."
Murdoch saw Weatherly give the spokesmen of the three a disgusted look. "I might have known you were behind this."
Murdoch caught his mental balance and spoke to Weatherly, not taking his eyes off the three men in the doorway. "You know these men, Weatherly?"
"One of them, Sir."
"Oh come now, Weatherly, don't stand on ceremony." The spokesman smiled broadly. He looked to be in his late forties. He wore an expensive business suit, a black and gray cravat making him look pompous. However there was nothing pompous about the gun he held. Murdoch was sure by the ease with which he handled it that he knew how to use it. "Conrad Latchford, at your service. To tell you the truth, I never expected you to show up here. I had, of course, expected your son - yes, Scott is your son - to hurry back to see what had happened to his precious grandfather. Your other son, now he was the biggest surprise. I hadn't counted on him following Scott."
Latchford looked around the parlor, his eyes resting on Sam. "And you, Doctor, I had not planned on you either. I try to plan for all contingences. That's why I made sure the man who hired – the help – in Omaha used the name Masters and looked enough like the real Masters to pass if the job was botched somehow and questions were asked. As Mr. Lancer pointed out, it would all trace back to Weatherly."
"What do you want here, Latchford?" Weatherly asked. "Haven't you already taken enough from this house?"
"I would hold a civil tongue, Weatherly," Latchford warned. "I'm the only reason you still have a job here. I could have fired you with the rest of the staff."
"You had no right to fire the staff." Weatherly took one step backward, drawing the attention of all three gunmen. Murdoch appreciated the tactical move, giving him time to take a step of his own, separating him further from Sam. But the sound of a gun cocking froze Weatherly. Murdoch watched the other two gunmen step around Latchford into the room. Their business suits were ill fitting, off the rack clothes, compared to Latchford's tailor-made suit. But there was nothing ill fitting in the way their guns sat comfortably in their hands.
A fourth man appeared in the parlor shaking his head. "No one else here."
Latchford nodded. "Let's all sit down then, and wait for the rest of the family. By the way, where are Scott and his brother?"
Murdoch slowly took a seat, searching his mind to come up with a plausible answer; anything but the truth. Weatherly spoke up. "I believe Mr. Scott took his brother to the Common to meet someone."
"Who?" Latchford demanded.
"I am not privy to all of Mr. Scott's thoughts."
Latchford strode quickly across the room, backhanding Weatherly smartly across the cheek. "I asked you a question. Who were they meeting?"
Weatherly wiped the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "I can't tell you what I don't know."
Murdoch leaned forward in his seat. "Scott said he knew where to find someone who could answer his questions. He didn't say who."
"All right, I guess we will just have to wait and ask them. Weatherly, where are your manners? Is this the way to treat your guests?"
"Coffee sounds good, Weatherly," Murdoch said quickly. "And some of those biscuits you made for breakfast." He saw the glare, then the understanding.
"Very well, Mr. Lancer."
As Weatherly stood up and walked out of the parlor, Latchford motioned for one of his men to follow the servant.
Murdoch sat back and waited. He prayed Johnny and Scott would not return for a long time.
Johnny stood silently, his gun pointed at the secretary. Sweat dotted the man's face. Scott knew Johnny, trusted him implicitly, and yet he too felt the danger emanating from him. Here, again, was Johnny Madrid. Scott had only met Madrid twice before, and each time it left him bewildered that this man and Johnny Lancer were one in the same. He could see terror in the secretary's eyes. Forcing himself to act casually he nodded toward the man. "Now, Mr….." Scott made a show of looking on the desk for a nameplate.
"Zachary," the secretary stuttered. "Oliver Zachary."
"Mr. Zachary, I would lower your gun if I were you. My friend here is as dangerous as he looks."
A slow, spine chilling smile came to Johnny's face. "Should I demonstrate?"
Zachary looked at the gun as if he was surprised to see it still in his hand. "No! No, please," he said, quickly lowering the gun as if it were suddenly burning his fingers.
"Lay it on the desk nice and easy and push it over this way," Scott ordered. Zachary complied and Scott reached forward and picked up the gun, pointing it back at the trembling man.
"A very smart move, Mr. Zachary. Now, as I said before, I am Scott Lancer, Harlan Garrett's grandson. Therefore, I am your boss."
Zachary looked as if he was going to faint dead away any second. "You can't be…"
Johnny slowly cocked his gun, the sound turning Zachary's pale face whiter. "The man said he was your boss. You got a problem with that?"
"No, Sir," came the whispered answer.
"Good." Johnny eased the hammer back. "I didn't think so."
Scott dropped Zachary's derringer into his pocket to free both hands. "All my grandfather's business documents are missing from his office at his house. I assume they are here."
Zachary nodded, the sweat now heavy enough to be dripping from his chin. "They are in Mr. Latchford's…I mean your office, Sir."
Scott nodded. "I think business is done for the day, Mr. Zachary. If you wouldn't mind waiting in there." He motioned to the door on left the desk.
Zachary looked at Johnny, whose gun still pointed directly at his heart. "Yes, Sir." He stumbled toward the door, the light from the room revealing the inside of a coat closet as he quickly closed it behind him. Scott moved the heavy desk chair over and wedged it beneath the door handle. "There, he won't be going anywhere for a while." Crossing to the double doors, he locked both sides and turned back to Johnny. "Let's have a look at those papers."
"What if Latchford or Moore have a key?"
"Oh, I'm certain they do. But." Scott smiled at Johnny, indicating the gun in his hand. "So do you."
Johnny grinned. "I knew there was a reason why I liked you, Boston."
It was harder for Scott to open the door leading into his grandfather's office than he thought it would be. He had spent many hours here, either beside his grandfather's desk or at the small table and chair set beneath the window overlooking the street. Grandfather had said he didn't need the distractions of the outside world when he was concentrating on business. Scott always needed the reassurance that the world still existed beyond these four walls.
The sight of the huge cherry wood desk, once buffed to a mirror finish, depressed him more than anything had so far. This had been his grandfather's domain. The desk, while loaded down with scattered letters and business contracts, had had an order to it that only Harlan Garrett could understand. It suddenly brought back memories of Murdoch's always tidy desk. Just one more difference between the two men.
The desk now seemed to be perfectly organized. Folders were stacked neatly to the left and the pen and inkstand were to the right. Just like Grandfather's office at home, the room had been stripped of paintings and anything that personalized it. It felt like Harlan Garrett had never existed.
"You all right, Scott?" Johnny asked gently.
"Yes." Scott took a deep breath. "Let's get this over with." Slipping into the soft leather office chair, he noticed immediately that it was set too low for his legs. He and Harlan Garrett had been very close to the same height. It was just one more painful reminder that his grandfather was no longer here. Pulling a stack of files before him, Scott began to read.
Johnny made a sweep of the room several times, reading the spines of books on the shelves, spinning a large globe in the corner, studying Scott's bent head as he turned page after page in the files, before boredom finally sent him back into the outer office. He put his ear to the closet door and didn't hear a thing from inside. He thought for a moment that Zachary might have died from fright. Tapping lightly on the door, he heard a muffled, "Who is it?"
"Just making sure you're still alive." Then Johnny thought of a question that had been plaguing him. Sliding the chair away from the door, he turned the knob, drew his gun from the special holster inside his sling and nudged the door open with his foot. The sudden light made Zachary squint.
"Zachary, right?"
Zachary opened his eyes, a little whimper escaping his throat at the sight of the gun aimed at him again. "Don't shoot me, please."
Johnny grinned. "I only shoot lily-livered polecats. Are you a polecat, Zachary?"
"No. No, Sir. I'm just a secretary."
Johnny snorted ruefully. "Never heard of a secretary before. What do you do here, Zachary?"
"I make appointments for Misters Latchford and Moore. Read and answer correspondence–ah-mail."
"Then you would know how your bosses got word that Scott was on the train."
"Yes, Sir. We received a telegram from Green River. A detestably backward little town, I'm sure. The telegraph operator didn't even know how to spell Mr. Moore's name correctly."
Johnny fought back the desire to punch the man in the face. "Then what?" he asked.
"Sir? I'm not sure what you mean."
"Who hired the two men to drown Scott in the Missouri River?"
Zachary suddenly stiffened. Johnny pulled the hammer back. "Who, Zachary?"
"I don't know what you are talking about, Sir." Zachary looked like he was about to be sick. "I…" The sound of a knock at the door sent a wave of fear over Zachary's face. Johnny pantomimed for the man to stay quiet. There was a long pause, than another knock. Johnny waited, saw the doorknob jiggle, then the sound of footsteps walking back down the hallway.
At that moment, Scott walked out of Garrett's office. "Let's go," he said brusquely. Johnny couldn't read his brother's face. That alone made him know that Scott had found something that worried him.
"What about him?" Johnny asked, nodding toward Zachary.
"Leave him. We can have someone check on him this evening."
"No, Sir! You can't leave me in here."
Scott stepped forward, and in an uncharacteristic show of anger, he grabbed Zachary's bowtie and jerked the startled man closer. "You are lucky I don't kill you right here and now," Scott threatened. "Now stay quiet or I might wait until tomorrow to send someone to let you out."
Scott pushed the man deeper into the closet and Johnny slammed the door shut, slipping his gun back into his sling and replacing the chair against the door.
"You found something?" Johnny asked, trying to read his brother.
Scott nodded. "Someone was blackmailing Grandfather, threatening to release information that could destroy Garrett Enterprises. His name was linked to fraudulent business deals. I know my grandfather, and I know he was not always above board in his business dealings. But he was never sloppy."
Scott turned toward the double doors when Johnny reached out and grabbed his arm. "Talk to me, Scott. I know it's more than just your grandfather's business. It's more personal."
Scott turned back and Johnny's stomach dropped at the look of betrayal on his brother's face. "I found a file. It was filled with reports from the Pinkertons from the first day I boarded the train to Lancer."
"Does that really surprise you?" Johnny asked.
"No. But this does." Scott pulled an envelope from his vest pocket. "It's all the information fed to the Pinkertons about my trip to Europe. It…It also contains my death certificate."