Vendetta Trail (10 page)

THE TICKET AGENT LOOKED UP WITH SOME CURIOSITY
and a little concern as the two approached his window.

“Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’re looking for a woman,” Vizzini replied. “We think that she may have bought a ticket from you.”

“A lot of ladies buy railroad tickets.”

“We are only interested in one, and she would have bought it earlier this evening. We want to know when she left and where she is going.”

“I’m sorry, but unless you are with the police, I don’t think I could answer such a question.”

“Mister, if you know what is good for you, you will…” Vizzini started, but Tangeleno held up his hand, interrupting him in midsentence.

“You might say we are working with the police,” Tangeleno said.

“Do you have some sort of identification?” the ticket agent asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we do,” Tangeleno replied, handing the ticket agent a twenty-dollar bill.

The agent took the twenty-dollar bill, examined it for a moment to make certain that it was legitimate, then folded it and put it away. He smiled at Tangeleno and Vizzini. “Yes,” he said. “I think this is all the identification I will need. But let’s step away from the ticket window, shall we?”

“Why?”

“One can’t be too careful,” the ticket agent said as he walked down to the far end of the counter. Tangeleno and Vizzini walked with him, keeping the counter between them.

“I must say that, earlier tonight, there was a woman who bought a ticket from me under most curious conditions. She was a very pretty young woman, about five feet four inches tall.”

“That sounds like half the women in New Orleans,” Vizzini said. “What makes you remember this one?”

“Three things. First, she paid for her ticket with a one hundred dollar bill. And second, she had no luggage.”

“You said three things,” Vizzini said.

“Oh yes. The third thing is: She had blood on her dress. She said it was from a nosebleed, but I didn’t believe her.”

“What color was the dress?”

“I believe it was yellow,” the agent answered.

“Ticket agent, I would like a railroad ticket please,” a man called from the window.

“Excuse me for a moment,” the ticket agent said. The ticket agent walked back down to the window, far enough away to be out of earshot of Tangeleno and Vizzini.

“That’s Rachel,” Vizzini said. “It has to be. She was wearing a yellow dress, and I don’t see how she could not have gotten blood on it.”

“But the agent said she paid for her ticket with a one hundred dollar bill. Where did she get such money?”

“Maybe De Luca paid her to come to his party,” Vizzini suggested.

“Why would he pay a whore one hundred dollars when he could get her for five dollars?”

“I don’t know. But if he didn’t pay her, where did she get the money?”

“Hennesy,” Tangeleno said.

“Hennesy?”

“You said he was there, didn’t you? De Luca was paying him off. Did you find any money?”

“We didn’t look,” Tangeleno admitted.

“That’s where she got the money,” Tangeleno said.

“I’m sorry, Don, I should have looked for the money.

To Vizzini’s surprise, Tangeleno smiled. “No,” he said. He chuckled. “This is working out very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“We didn’t think she had enough money to go where she wanted to go and we had no idea where she would wind up. But now that she does have money, we know exactly where she is going. She’s going to Bellefont, Kansas.”

“But the ticket agent said she only bought a ticket to Memphis.”

“I know. But I think that was just to throw us off.”

“I’m sorry for the interruption, gentlemen,” the ticket agent said, returning from the transaction at the window. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes. If this woman was going to Bellefont, Kansas, where would she change trains?”

“Well, she isn’t going to Bellefont,” the ticket agent said. “I sold her tickets only as far as Memphis.”

“Yes, I know, but it may be that she did that just to throw off the police. If she was going to Bellefont, where would she go from Memphis?”

“Oh well, in that case, she would have to continue on up to St. Louis and take the train west from there,” the ticket agent said. “But if that is so, why didn’t she just buy a ticket all the
way to St. Louis? It would have been cheaper to buy it all together, rather than buy it as a separate ticket.”

“Who knows the workings of a criminal mind?” Tangeleno asked.

“Yes, who indeed,” the ticket agent replied.

“What do we do now?” Vizzini asked as they left the station.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going home and going to bed,” Tangeleno said. “It has been a long night.”

“But Rachel?”

“Rachel is on the train, headed for Memphis. We can’t do anything about her until she gets there.”

“How? If the train has already left, we can’t beat it to Memphis.”

Tangeleno smiled. “We can’t…but a telegram can.”

The sign on the front of the store on West Capitol Street in Jackson, Mississippi, read:
LADIES
’
CLOTHING AND MILLINERY GOODS
.

“Yes, may I help you?” a woman asked, coming up to the counter when Rachel entered.

“I do hope so,” Rachel replied. “I am on my way to Memphis. But when I changed trains here in Jackson, my luggage was sent, by mistake, to Montgomery, Alabama. I simply must have some clothes if I am to continue my journey. I hope you have some ready-made clothes that I could buy.”

“Oh, you are in luck, my dear,” the store clerk said. “I have several beautiful dresses that our own seamstresses have made. I’m sure we can get you outfitted quite nicely.”

One hour later Rachel left the store wearing a new dress and carrying a portmanteau filled with the rest of her wardrobe. Hailing a hack, she had the driver take her to the Illinois Central Railroad Station. There, she exchanged her Memphis ticket for one that would take her to Cairo, Illinois.

As Tangeleno sat on his patio, having breakfast, one of his servants brought a man back to see him. The man wore a sweeping mustache and a bowler hat, and he took his hat off and made a sweeping bow as he was introduced.

“I miei rispetti a Lei, Padrino,”
the man said. “I kiss your ring.”

Tangeleno, who was sitting at the breakfast table, dabbed at his mouth with a linen, then held his ring out to allow the man to kiss it.

“What is your name?” Tangeleno asked.

“
Il mio nome è
Giovanni Giordano,” the man replied. “I am a baker. My shop is at 1124 Bourbon Street. I have brought you some cannolis.” He picked up a package, wrapped in cheesecloth, and held it toward Tangeleno. Tangeleno nodded at his servant, and the servant took it.

“
Grazie.
What can I do for you, Signore Giordano?”

“I did not tell the police,” Giordano said.

Tangeleno squinted his eyes. “You did not tell the police what?” he asked.

“I did not tell them about the
pianista
who plays piano at the whorehouse.”

“Signore Giordano, I still don’t know what you are talking about.”

“It was last week,” Giordano said. “I was working late when I saw it.” As Giordano began telling the story of witnessing a gun battle in the empty lot next to his bakery, it was clear that he was reliving the trauma of what he had witnessed.

“The police questioned me,” Giordano said after he finished telling his story to Tangeleno. “But I said nothing.
Omerta, omerta.
” He put his finger to his lips.

“Then I learned that the men the whorehouse piano player killed were your men, Don Tangeleno. And because they were your men and because of my great respect for you, I have come to tell you.”

Tangeleno had listened incredulously to the entire story. It seemed improbable that one man could kill three of his best men in such a way. It seemed impossible that the one man who did it would be a whorehouse piano player.

And yet, even as he was weighing the credulity, Tangeleno knew he believed the story. He believed the story because there was no way this baker would know that he had sent his men after the piano player.

“My friend,” Tangeleno said, putting his hand on Giordano’s shoulder. “You have done right in coming to me like this. You have done me a great favor. What can I do for you?”

“There is a colored woman in the 800 block of Rampart Street,” Tangeleno said. “She is making bread and pastries. It is all right if she makes it for her own kind, but she is making Italian bread and pastries. She is not as good as I am, she does not know all the secrets of the old country. And because she does not use the best ingredients, she sells for less money than I can sell for. She is hurting my business.”

“It is not good that a colored woman bakes for Italians. I will go and talk to her,” Tangeleno promised. “I will make her listen to reason.”

“Grazie, Padrino,”
Giordano said, again kissing Tangeleno’s ring.
“Grazie.”

That evening, as Tangeleno was having his supper, Vizzini stepped into the dining room. Tangeleno had just lifted a forkful of spaghetti to his mouth and he sucked in all the noodles before he spoke.

“What do you have to tell me?” Tangeleno asked.

“The colored woman that Giordano spoke about will not be baking any more bread for Italians. I spoke to her, and I got her to listen to reason.”

“Good, good,” Tangeleno said.

“Also, I have found out some very interesting things,” Vizzini said.

“Such as?”

“The man who played the piano at the whorehouse is named Mason Hawke.”

“What do you mean, ‘the man who
played
the piano’?”

“He is no longer there, Don Tangeleno. He has left New Orleans.”

“Where did he go?”

“He took a job on the riverboat
Delta Mist
and is on his way to St. Louis.”

“St. Louis?” Tangeleno picked up a napkin and dabbed at his lips. “So, the man who played the piano in the same house where the whore Rachel worked is going to St. Louis.”

“It is even more interesting, Don Tangeleno,” Vizzini said. “I have heard that the whore and this man Hawke knew each other from before. They were friends before the American Civil War.”

“When did the boat leave New Orleans?” Tangeleno asked.

“It left yesterday morning.”

“And the whore left last night.”

“Yes.”

Tangeleno smiled. “Now we know why she didn’t buy a ticket all the way to St. Louis. She plans to join the boat in Memphis.”

“Don Tangeleno, I think there is something else you should know about this piano player,” Vizzini said. “This telegram came from Steffani Bellini in Denver. He held it out.

“Read it,” Tangeleno said.

Vizzini cleared his throat and began reading. “‘Understand you have had run-in with Mason Hawke Stop You should know that he is one of the deadliest gunmen in the
West Stop I do not know what he is doing in New Orleans, but do not take him lightly Stop.’”

“So,” Tangeleno said. “It would appear that we had a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“
Sí,
Don Tangeleno.”

“Vizzini, send telegrams to Memphis and to St. Louis. I want the piano player and the whore dead, and I will pay five thousand dollars to whoever does it.”

“I will send the telegrams,” Vizzini said.

“And just to be certain that the job is done, you and I will go to this place in Kansas where the whore is going.”

“You want
me
to go to Bellefont with you?”

“Yes. You are
il mio tenente fidato,
my trusted lieutenant. If all others fail me, I know you will succeed. And when we have killed them both, I will give you your own city.”

“I thank you for your confidence, Don Tangeleno,” Vizzini said with a proud smile.

IT WAS AN ALL-NIGHT TRIP FROM JACKSON TO
Memphis, and Rachel woke up the next morning, just as the train was backing into the station. The sound of steel wheels rolling on steel tracks, as well as the puffing of the steam engine, echoed back from the roof that stretched overhead.

As this train would be going on to Cairo, she did not have to detrain, so she lay there, enjoying the comforting and almost guilty sensation of being able to remain in bed while others were having to move about.

She had just about dozed off again when she heard something that alerted her.

“Is your name Rachel?”

The question was asked by a man, and, very carefully, Rachel peeked through the still-closed curtains that shut off her upper berth. She saw two men standing in the aisle, about three-quarters of the way toward the far end of the car.

“No, my name is not Rachel,” a woman answered. The woman was blonde, and about Rachel’s age.

“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, ma’am,” the man who asked the question said.

The two men passed on through the car, but, as the woman sitting in the seat was the only woman who was close to her age and description, they didn’t ask anyone else.

“What’s her last name?” one of the men asked.

“I don’t know. The telegram from Tangeleno didn’t say.”

Rachel’s blood ran cold when she heard Tangeleno’s name.

Even as the first man was answering the question, he jerked open one of the closed curtains.

“Hey! This berth is taken!” a man’s voice said from behind the curtains.

“Sorry.”

Rachel was terrified! How did Tangeleno know she was on this train?

“Maybe she’s already off the train,” one of the men said.

“Could be, but I’m not going to take any chances. Tangeleno’s not a man you want to disappoint.”

Rachel heard another curtain jerked open. “This one is empty.”

They were coming here!

Rachel moved to the inside of her bed, where it attached to the side of the car. Reaching back to the edge, she pulled back, causing the bed to pivot up, then snap closed. It was tight and dark inside. She heard the curtains open.

“She’s not here. This bed has already been folded up.”

“How come the curtains are closed?”

“I don’t know, but she’s not here.”

“If she’s already off the train, we better get out there and find her.”

“Yeah.”

Rachel remained very quiet for a long time. Not until the train began moving again, did she start knocking on the bunk and calling out.

“Is someone in there?” a man’s voice called.

“Yes! I’m in here!”

She heard the key being put into the keyhole, then, mercifully, the bunk was pulled down. She found herself looking directly into the face of a black porter.

“Lord have mercy, miss, how’d you get yourself wound up in such a fix?” the porter asked.

“I don’t know,” Rachel said. “I just turned over against the inside of the bed and it pivoted up.”

“Well, how long you been in there?”

“Since we arrived in Memphis.”

“If that don’t beat all. I’m terrible sorry, miss,” the porter said. “I’ll take a good look at it to see that it don’t happen again.”

“Thank you.”

As the train approached Caruthersville, Missouri, Rachel decided to get off. Somehow the two men who were looking for her in Memphis had known that she was on that train. The only way they could have possibly known was to have traced her through the ticket agent who sold her the original ticket, back in New Orleans.

Since they did not find her in Memphis, what would keep them from learning that she had bought a ticket to Cairo?

The answer was: Nothing could prevent them from making that discovery. But if she arbitrarily decided to leave the train in Caruthersville, who would know? She had told nobody of this decision. She had not even come to this decision until just before the train reached Caruthersville.

Caruthersville was a river port, and the train was now well ahead of the
Delta Mist
. All she would have to do is wait here for a few days, then board the boat when it made its port call.

“I beg your pardon?” the conductor asked when she told him she wished to get off.

“I want to get off here,” she said again.

“I’m not authorized to give you a refund for the unused portion of your ticket,” the conductor said.

“I don’t want a refund. I’ll use it to complete my trip later,” Rachel said. She told him the lie, because she believed that the fewer people who knew her real plans, the safer she would be. “It’s just that I would like to visit here for a while.”

“I wish you had told us that earlier, miss. It is going to be difficult to locate your luggage.”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

Within a few minutes of the conversation, the train began slowing as it approached the depot. Rachel stepped down onto the wooden depot platform and waited as the conductor went up to the baggage car to arrange for her luggage. Despite his protestations, her suitcase was produced quickly, and she stood there with it beside her as the engineer blew two long whistles, then started forward.

It was Rachel’s plan to remain as inconspicuous as she possibly could until it was time for her to board the riverboat. If nobody knew she was here, there would be no way of tracing her.

The problem with her plan, she learned as soon as the train pulled away from the station, was that Caruthersville was a very tiny town. And as an attractive single woman, she was guaranteed to attract attention.

“What brings you to our little town, Miss Smith?” the hotel clerk asked reading the name Rachel had used for her registration.

“I’m on my way to St. Louis to take a job as a schoolteacher,” Rachel replied.

The clerk looked surprised. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You just got off a train that is going to St. Louis.”

Rachel started to ask how he knew she had just left the
train, but knew the answer without having to ask the question. The hotel clerk knew because everyone in town knew. No doubt, everyone in town knew what she was wearing also, as well as how tall she was, and the color of her hair and eyes.

“The motion of the train was making me ill,” Rachel said. “I thought, perhaps, the slower and more leisurely pace of a riverboat would be less disturbing.”

“Yes, riding on a train can make one sick,” the clerk agreed. “I have been sick a few times myself.”

Rachel took the key from the clerk, went upstairs to her room, and settled in for the two-day stay. She wondered how she was going to keep herself occupied during her stay, then she thought of Louise. This would be the perfect opportunity to send a telegram, because she would have the time to wait for Louise’s reply.

The Western Union office was in the depot, and as she walked there, she met at least half a dozen other pedestrians and was greeted as Miss Smith by all of them. Even the telegrapher knew the name she had registered by.

“Hello, Miss Smith,” he said. “I hope you are enjoying Caruthersville.”

“Yes, it’s quite a lovely town. I would like to send a telegram.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the telegrapher said. He picked up a tablet and pencil. “Who is your message to?”

“It is to Mrs. Louise Smalley in Bellefont, Kansas,” Rachel said. “‘Is Queen of Hearts still for sale?’”

“Is that it?” the telegrapher asked.

“Sign it ‘Rachel’.”

“All right,” the telegrapher said. He counted the words. “That will be four bits.”

Rachel gave him a dollar bill, then received fifty cents in
change. “How long will it be before I receive an answer?” she asked.

“Well, that’s pretty much up to Mrs. Smalley. I expect she’ll have this message in no more’n half an hour from now.”

“Oh, isn’t this the most wonderful invention?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

As Rachel returned to the hotel, though, she remembered that the men who had come on the train in Memphis had been alerted to her presence by telegram. The same telegraph service she was so enthused about was making it possible for Tangeleno to continue his hunt for her.

One hour later Rachel was lying on the bed in her room when she was surprised—and a little frightened—to hear a knock on her door. She sat up but said nothing. Had they traced her here already?

“Miss Smith?”

Smith? Rachel breathed a little easier. Nobody but the residents of this town would call her Smith.

“Yes?” Rachel answered.

“I have a telegram for you,” the voice called from the other side of the door. It was obviously the voice of a young boy.

Rachel opened the door and saw a red-haired, freckle-faced youth of about fourteen. She gave him a dime.

“Thank you!” the boy said, grinning broadly at the tip.

Closing the door, Rachel walked back into her room and sat on the bed before she opened the telegram. She breathed a quick prayer that the response would be what she wanted.

Rachel’s spirits were greatly buoyed by the telegram. Until now, she had been unsure of what she was going to do,
other than escape Tangeleno. But with the news that the Queen of Hearts was still for sale, and with well over two thousand dollars in cash, she felt a sense of direction in her life for the first time since she had left Georgia.