Petticoat Detective (22 page)

He clamped his cigar between his teeth and shuffled through a stack of folders on his desk. He opened one and pulled out a sheet of wrinkled paper. “Found this clutched in Colton’s hand.” He handed it to her.

She unfolded the paper and immediately recognized the list of banks and express offices held up by the Gunnysack Bandit. It even included the St. Louis Bank. The list was typed, and judging by the lack of errors and cross outs, it was typed by someone familiar with a writing machine.

She looked up. “What was Dave Colton doing with a list like this?”

“My question, exactly.”

She studied the list again. Under the right circumstances it was possible to determine if a letter had been typed on a specific typewriter. Every machine had its own peculiarities, and irregularities of type and word spacing often provided important clues. Allan Pinkerton once testified in court that a ransom note had been written on a defendant’s writing machine. The demand for money clearly showed on the ribbon.

In this particular case, there was a slight defect in the letter
m
and the top of the
e
was furred. Both imperfections were the result of normal wear. Matching the letters with the type bars would be an easy task, providing the correct typewriter could be found.

She handed the paper back. It probably hadn’t even occurred to the marshal to check the typewriters in town. Allan Pinkerton was way ahead of local authorities in his crime-solving ways, and no small-town marshal was likely to catch up anytime soon.

“Where do you suppose he got that list?” she asked.

“I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

“You think
he
typed up the list. But that would mean—”

“Dave Colton was the Gunnysack Bandit.”

She stared at him. Nothing received from headquarters suggested such a thing. Could the marshal be right? She didn’t want to believe it.
God, please no! Not Dave. It would kill Tom!

The thought made her cringe, and she immediately pushed it away. She was a professional, and by George, she would act like one if it killed her. That meant keeping a clear and objective mind.

“Dave Colton could have found the list.” Or maybe Rose stole it from one of the guests and gave it to him.

“If it was just the list, I would agree.”

She stiffened. “There’s more?”

The marshal took a puff of his cigar. “Colton’s been dead for nearly three months, and there hasn’t been a single crime attributed to the Gunnysack Bandit since. He never went that long between robberies. A month maybe, but not three or even two.”

The marshal was right about the timing. “He killed a man during the last fiasco and was almost caught,” she said. “Maybe he’s just laying low for a while.”

“Oh, he’s low all right.” The marshal blew out a puff of smoke. “Six feet under, to be exact.”

The marshal’s theory was not only surprising but disturbing. She tried keeping an open mind, but thoughts of Tom kept getting in the way.

“It makes no sense,” she managed at last. “Why would Dave Colton keep a list that placed him at the scene of the crimes?”

“Some people like to keep track of their deeds. Kind of like notches on a gun or bedpost, if you know what I mean.”

As much as she hated to admit it, the marshal had a point. Still, his theory contained holes.

“That doesn’t explain who killed him
or
Rose.”

The marshal discounted her comment with a wave of his hand. “A man like David Colton makes a lot of enemies. As for Rose …” He shrugged. “I have no reason to think the two deaths are related. Her money box was empty, her jewelry gone. If it smells like robbery and looks like robbery, in my book it is a robbery. Her killer could be in Timbuktu for all I know. Case closed.”

She glared at him. The cavalier way he dismissed Rose’s killer infuriated her. All that business about looking into her death had meant nothing, and it was all she could do to control her anger.

“What about David Colton? Is that case closed, too?”

“Not yet, but it will be. Just as soon as I send my report to your boss.”

She leaned forward. “If he really was the Gunnysack Bandit, why would he turn to his brother for help when he thought Rose’s life was in danger?”

“Who knows? Maybe he was trying to cover his tracks.”

“Or maybe you’re wrong about him.”

“I wish that was true. ’Cause I sure don’t want to break the news to Tom Colton.” He took a puff of his cigar before removing it from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “No sir, don’t want to do that.”

She left the marshal’s office, shaken. David Colton, the Gunnysack Bandit? She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

“Why do you care what I do?”

“I don’t know why.”

The memory filled her with despair. Operatives had been warned against letting personal feelings compromise an investigation. Crime solving must be based on evidence, not emotions. She’d always prided herself on the ability to remain professional at all costs. So why would this time be any different?

Not wanting to risk bumping into Tom Colton again, she headed for the parlor house. She’d already gone over Miss Lillian’s ledgers, but it had never occurred to her to check Dave Colton’s visits against the dates of the Gunnysack Bandit’s crimes. He couldn’t be in two places at once. If he was with Rose, that would surely disprove the marshal’s theory.

She turned the corner and spotted a group of about a dozen women gathered in front of the parlor house, several of them holding up signs. The word
Repent
was written in big bold letters on one sign, but that was one of the least offensive suggestions.

The Pinkerton agency had worked with various unions, and she’d learned from experience that the best way to deal with angry picketers was to remain calm. As she drew near, the chanting grew louder and fists pumped the air.

Someone called her an ugly name. A young woman cradling an infant in her arms yelled, “Sinner!”

The groups began closing ranks, and Amy reached for the latch on the gate. A matronly woman rammed into her, her walking cane raised high over her head. Amy managed to duck just in time, but the reprieve didn’t last. Rough hands grabbed her by the waist and pulled her away from the gate.

Hate-filled faces pressed close, and dozens of hands pawed at her. She tried reaching for her gun, but someone pinned back her arms. Panic threatened. Even angry union picketers had not attacked her, at least not physically. These women looked like they were out for blood.

“Let me go,” she cried. “Please!”

The mob ripped off her dress. Someone yanked her hat off her head and trampled it.

One woman slapped her across the face. “That’s for my Charlie!”

“Stop, please, stop!” she cried, but her pleas went unheeded. A fist to her stomach was followed by a punch in the eye. Tears blurred her vision.

Then all at once her tormentors backed away. Her torn gown and petticoat were on the ground, but her holster was still attached to her bloomers. She pulled out her gun, but it was no longer needed.

Mrs. Givings stood a short distance away, glaring at Amy’s attackers, hands at her waist. “What’s the matter with you?” Trembling with righteous indignation, the churchwoman shook like a quaking aspen. “Is this how good Christians behave?” she sputtered. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you!”

“She’s one of
them
,” someone shouted, and a couple of women joined in to defend their actions, but Mrs. Givings would have none of it.

“This is a sad day for our church,” she said, her voice breaking. “A very sad day.”

The picketers hung their heads in shame, and one by one they left until only Mrs. Givings remained.

Amy picked a piece of fabric off the ground and held it to her bosom. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The churchwoman dropped her hands to her side. “I … never meant you any harm. I’m so sorry. Would … would you forgive us?”

The woman looked so distressed that Amy felt sorry for her. “I do,” she whispered.

Mrs. Givings looked about to say more but the sharp report of a gun made her jump.

“Oh dear,” she cried and quickly hobbled down the street, leaving a trail of hat feathers in her wake.

Amy’s gaze flew to the house. Miss Lillian stood on the porch, brandishing her weapon and looking unbearably pleased with herself. “Not bad for an amateur, wouldn’t you say?” she called.

Amy managed a wan smile. Hands on her sore stomach, she limped toward the porch. “Not bad at all.”

Miss Lillian led Amy into her office and ordered her to sit. Fussing over her mother hen–style, she issued orders like a general ready for battle.

“Polly, fetch my medical supplies. Georgia, tell Coffey to bring a pot of tea. And Buttercup … Land o’goshen, where’s that girl?”

Buttercup stuck her head into the office. “I’m here.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get Amy a dressing gown.”

No sooner had Polly returned with a basket of bandages and other supplies than Miss Lillian attacked Amy’s wounds with a wet sponge and salve. Buttercup returned with a blue silk dressing gown, which she draped around Amy’s shoulders.

The women stood around gaping until Miss Lillian chased them out of the office and slammed the door shut. “Mercy, you’d think they never saw a black eye before.”

Never had Amy known such attention, not even when she had measles and chickenpox as a child. Back on the farm, time and attention were devoted out of necessity to animals and crops, not children.

“You were lucky,” Miss Lillian said. “This group wasn’t as bad as most.”

Amy didn’t particularly feel lucky. She felt sore and miserable and more than a little humiliated. She had misjudged the situation and fallen into a trap. She should have been better prepared.

“And I thought
my
job was dangerous,” she muttered.

“You don’t know the least of it.” Miss Lillian clucked her tongue. “If anyone needs to repent, it’s those women’s husbands. They spend Saturday nights here and Sundays in church. Hypocrites, all of them.”

The pressure of Miss Lillian’s touch increased with her rising voice.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” Miss Lillian proceeded more gently but continued her tirade. “If they must pick on someone, why not those dreadful cribs? Or better yet, that horrible pimp Mr. Fortune. There’s nothing worse than a pi,” she said, using the slang word for pimp. The gentle euphemisms used to describe her own affairs were never extended to the competition.

“Why is it worse for a man?” Amy asked. She doubted God made allowances for gender.

“A man can do anything he wants, that’s why. He can pursue any vocation. Start any business. Every bank is willing to give him a loan.” She sighed. “It’s different for a woman. Our choices are limited, to say the least.”

Miss Lillian’s voice held a wistfulness that surprised Amy. For a moment the mask had slipped, revealing a woman who had once been deeply hurt or disillusioned. Maybe both.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why have you never married?”

Miss Lillian’s eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re rich and powerful and attractive.” In her younger days she might even have been considered a beauty. “Seems like you could have had just about any man you set your cap for.”

Miss Lillian set the tube of salve on the desk and wiped her hands on a towel. “Perhaps. But do you know how many married men cheat on their wives? There’s not a man alive who can be trusted. Why would I want to put myself through that?”

“There are good men out there. Men who are honest and committed to their families.” At least Amy hoped there were, though lately she’d begun to question if that was true.

Miss Lillian discounted the notion with a wave of a jeweled hand. “You can’t keep a good man good. When a man marries, he says adios to the single life and hello to adultery.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? What do you think keeps me in business?” Miss Lillian threw up her hands as if it didn’t matter, but the sadness in her eyes betrayed her. “Let’s just say where men are concerned, I wouldn’t trust a one of them. What good is marriage without trust?” She gave Amy a scolding look. “Don’t tell me a bright woman like you believes otherwise.”