Longarm 245: Longarm and the Vanishing Virgin (4 page)

“Well, painting is hardly a fitting hobby for a senator's wife, is it? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

Longarm shrugged. Just because something was unheard of didn't necessarily mean it was a bad idea. He wasn't going to argue the point with Canady, though. Instead he went over to the wardrobe and paused with his hand on the door, looking back quizzically at Canady.

“Go ahead,” Canady said. “I'm sure Nora would be embarrassed to have a strange man pawing through her clothes—but she should have thought of that before she disappeared, shouldn't she?”

“I'll be as careful as I can,” Longarm promised.

For the next half hour, he tried to keep that promise as he searched the room for anything that might indicate where Nora Canady had intended to go when she left the mansion. That was assuming, of course, that she'd even had a destination in mind. She might have been in such a hurry to leave that she hadn't cared where she ended up.

The time was wasted, however. Longarm didn't find a thing that was suspicious. He looked at Canady, who had watched him in silence, and asked, “Is this the way the room was found?”

“Nothing has been touched,” Canady assured him. “At least, there are no signs of ... of foul play, are there, Marshal?”

“No, there ain't,” admitted Longarm. “I'd say you and Senator Palmer are right about Miss Nora leaving on her own, judging from the state of this room leastways. If anybody got in here and grabbed her, there would've been some sign of a struggle.”

“So, how will you proceed from here?”

Longarm tried not to sigh. “There are two possibilities, the way I see it. Either your daughter is still here in Denver, or she's not.”

Canady nodded and said, “That makes sense.”

“If she's here in town somewhere and lying low, she may be harder to find than if she left. I'll have to put the word out and ask a lot of questions—”

“Discreetly, I hope,” Canady said, cutting in.

“Discreetly,” Longarm agreed with a nod. “I know folks at most of the hotels and boardinghouses in town. I can ask them about Miss Nora without mentioning any names. I'll need to know what she looks like, of course, so I can describe her.”

“Of course. I'll give you a complete description, even a photograph. And if she's no longer in Denver?”

“Then she had to leave some way, which means she took a train or a stagecoach or rented a horse or a buggy. Again, that involves pounding a lot of boot leather and asking a heap of questions.”

“Well, I'm sure you know what you're doing, Marshal. All I care about are the results.” The railroad tycoon's voice cracked a little. “I just want you to find my daughter.”

“I'll do my best, Mr. Canady,” Longarm assured him. “Now, you said you've got a picture of Miss Nora....”

“Of course. Let's go back downstairs.”

Canady led Longarm back to the study, where he took a small, framed photograph from his desk. Longarm had seen the back of it earlier, but Canady hadn't turned it around so that Longarm could see the subject of the picture. Now Canady handed it to him, and Longarm took it and studied it.

The sepia-toned photograph was of a young woman in a high-necked dress, looking solemn as folks usually did when they had their pictures made. Her hair was thick and piled into an elaborate arrangement of curls on her well-shaped head. Her mouth was a trifle too big for her to be considered classically beautiful, but something about her—those large, dark, luminous eyes maybe—hit Longarm like a punch in the belly. Nora Canady was the most flat-out attractive female he had seen in quite a spell.

Longarm swallowed and asked, “How old is your daughter?”

“She just turned twenty,” answered Canady.

“Mighty pretty.”

“She means the world to me, Marshal.”

Longarm had already promised Canady he would do his best. He didn't feel like repeating the pledge. Instead he hefted the photograph and said, “I'll take good care of this and won't show it to nobody unless I just have to. I know you want to keep this quiet.”

“Thank you, Marshal. I appreciate your understanding, and I know Jonas does too.” Canady must have sensed that the meeting was over, because he began showing Longarm out of the study. “When will you begin your investigation?” he asked as they walked through the big entrance hall.

“Right away,” said Longarm. “It's early yet. I'll do a little work tonight.”

“I couldn't ask for a better effort than that.” Canady shook hands with Longarm again at the front door. “Good night, Marshal.”

Longarm bid the railroad tycoon good night and started walking down the long drive toward the street. He might be able to catch a cab, he thought, but if he didn't, he could hoof it back downtown. He'd done enough cowboying in his younger years, after his service in the Late Unpleasantness, so that he didn't care much for walking, but the night air was pleasant and he didn't mind the prospect of a stroll that awful much.

O'Shaughnessy was waiting at the front gate, which had been closed since Longarm's arrival. The guard swung the wrought-iron gate open and said, “Good night to ye, Mr. Long.”

“Good night, Mr. O'Shaughnessy,” Longarm replied.

The gate closed behind him with a loud clang.

Longarm looked one way, then the other, along the deserted street. There were no hansom cabs in sight, no buggies, no riders, no pedestrians other than him. That struck him as a little odd, but he didn't give it much thought as he started walking east toward Denver's downtown district.

He had gone about a hundred yards when the rumble of wheels on paving stones made him glance over his shoulder. A large wagon had entered the street from somewhere. He saw it clearly as it passed beneath one of the gas streetlights. The wagon was loaded with barrels and drawn by a fine team of matched black horses, six of them in all.

Six black horses, thought Longarm wryly. That was the number and color of the team that traditionally pulled hearses. This was no undertaker's wagon coming toward him, however. It was just a tradesman's vehicle of some sort.

That thought was going through Longarm's head when the driver suddenly slapped his reins down on the backs of his team and called out to them. The black horses surged forward against their harness, breaking into a gallop and pulling the wagon along behind them at breakneck speed.

It took Longarm a second to realize that the horses were coming straight at him.

Longarm hadn't survived so long by being slow when it counted. His instincts took over and flung him to one side as the horses and wagon thundered down on him.

He landed hard on the paving stones, bruising his right shoulder. His momentum carried him on over in a roll that brought him up on his knees. In the glow from a streetlight, he caught a glimpse of the teamster's face as the wagon raced past him. The man was bearded, but that was all Longarm could tell about him. He had a floppy-brimmed hat pulled down tight on his head, shielding the rest of his features.

“Hey!” Longarm shouted. The wagon never slowed down. Longarm felt like drawing his gun and sending a couple of slugs after the son of a bitch, but he stopped with his fingers just touching the polished walnut grips of the Colt. Being careless wasn't really a crime, and Billy Vail didn't much like it when his deputies went around town discharging their weapons at the citizens of Denver.

Longarm stood up, started to brush himself off, then grimaced as a pungent odor struck his nose. He lifted his left arm, sniffed at the sleeve of his coat, and made an even worse face. He had rolled right through a pile of horse apples.

“Shit!” he said, both appropriately and emphatically.

Well, at least it was a warm night, he told himself, trying to take a philosophical bent as he stripped off the coat and rolled it into a ball after taking the small, framed photograph of Nora Canady from the breast pocket.

In shirtsleeves, vest, and string tie, he strode on down the street. He would stop at the Chinese laundry he normally used—old Chow would still be there, despite the lateness of the hour—and drop off the coat to be cleaned. Then he could proceed on his mission.

It would be nice, thought Longarm, to run into that wagon driver again and teach him a little lesson. But the likelihood of that was mighty slim, especially considering the fact that Longarm hadn't gotten a good enough look at him to recognize him again. What had happened tonight was going to be one of those little injustices of life that never got avenged, Longarm told himself.

 

Half an hour later, after leaving the soiled coat with the Chinese laundryman, Longarm strolled into one of Denver's nicer hotels. The desk clerk knew him and gave him a pleasant nod of greeting. The lobby was almost empty. A couple of men sat in armchairs on the other side of the room, reading newspapers. Other than the clerk, they were the only people in sight.

Longarm crossed the lobby to the desk and said, “Evenin', Carl. Quiet night?”

“It's always quiet here, Marshal. Our guests insist upon it. What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a lady.”

The clerk nodded knowingly. “Yes, I'd heard about your, ah, romantic troubles, Marshal. You have my deepest sympathy and my hopes that the situation soon resolves itself.”

“Dad blast it!” snapped Longarm. “Word gets around this town too fast. Don't you boys have anything better to do than gossip?”

“I meant no offense, Marshal,” the clerk said hastily. “I'm sure one of the bellboys can find a lady who would be glad to keep you company this evening.”

Wearily, Longarm rubbed a hand over his face, then put his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “That ain't what I'm looking for,” he said between gritted teeth. “I'm looking for one certain lady, and it's business I want with her, not pleasure.”

“Oh. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Longarm waved off the apology. “This woman I'm after would have arrived last Saturday night maybe. No earlier than that, but it could have been sometime since then. She's about twenty years old, dresses well, and is mighty pretty.”

“Do you know her name?” asked the clerk.

“I don't know what name she might've been using,” Longarm answered, which was true as far as it went.

“Well, it doesn't really matter, since I'm afraid I can't help you, Marshal. We have no single female guests at the moment, and there haven't been any since well before this past Saturday.”

Longarm had been afraid of that. But this was only the first step on what might turn out to be a long trail. He nodded and said, “Much obliged anyway.”

“Do you want me to keep an eye out for this woman, Marshal?”

“I'd appreciate it. And if you could sort of pass the word along to the fellas who work the other shifts ...”

“Of course.”

“But other than that, keep it under your hat. Make sure the other clerks know that too.”

“Absolutely,” the clerk assured Longarm. “You can count on us for discretion, Marshal.” He gave a smile that was half-smirk. “After all, our profession demands it.”

Longarm thanked the man again and moved on. There were several more hotels in downtown Denver that he intended to visit tonight. The boardinghouses would have to wait until the next day.

For the next hour, Longarm walked from hotel to hotel, asking the same questions. In each case, he failed to get the results he wanted. Either there were no single females staying at the places, or they were too old to be the one he was looking for. By the time he gave up for the night and headed back to his own rented room, he was frustrated and ready to start wondering if maybe he was on the wrong track.

Nothing said that Nora Canady had to have gone to a hotel alone, he told himself. Maybe she had a lover. Maybe that was why she had run off instead of marrying Jonas Palmer. She could be in a hotel room right now with some lucky fella, romping to beat the band.

Or she could have disguised herself to look older, Longarm speculated. That was more far-fetched, but not beyond the realm of possibility. He had been asking about a twenty-year-old woman, when all along Nora might have made herself look twice that old. But why would she have done such a thing?

That was the question that all the other questions came back to, he realized. Nora must have had a damned good reason to disappear. If Longarm could figure out what that reason was, he might be a lot closer to discovering where she was now.

But he'd have to ponder on that tomorrow, he decided as he chewed on an unlit cheroot and crossed the wooden bridge that spanned Cherry Creek. His rooming house was close by. In the quiet night, his boot heels rang loudly on the planks of the bridge.

A shape moved out of the shadows at the far end of the bridge.

“Hold it right there, mister.”

Longarm stopped in his tracks as the voice barked the order at him. He didn't stop because he was frightened, since he wasn't. He came to a halt because he wanted to find out what this shadowy hombre was up to. He supposed he was just naturally curious.

The familiar ratcheting of a gun being cocked came to his ears. Then the voice said, “Keep your hands where I can see 'em.”

Longarm raised his arms and held his hands out to the sides. “This a holdup, fella?” he asked. “If it is, you've picked the wrong time of the month. Payday ain't for a couple of weeks yet, and I'm already down to the bottom of the barrel.”

That was true enough. He had been thinking of paying a visit to the Denver Public Library, not only because of the friendly gal who worked there, but also because sitting around and reading was a cheap way to pass the time.