Improper Pinkerton

Improper Pinkerton

Paty Jager

This is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

IMPROPER PINKERTON

Copyright © 2011 Patricia Jager

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Windtree Press except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

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Windtree Press

Beaverton, Oregon

Visit us at http://windtreepress.com

Cover Art by Christina Keerins

Published in the United States of America

Chapter One

Chicago, 1881

A large eye gawked at Mae Simon. She gulped, straightened her shoulders, and grasped the brass knob of the door flaunting the illustration and words: Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, We Never Sleep.

She drew a deep breath, exhaled her anxieties, and stepped through the threshold, shedding her past life and starting her new one. A confident stride carried her through the reception area to another door which stood ajar.

Come in, I’ve been expecting you. William Pinkerton levered his round build out of a chair and stood behind a desk littered with papers. Gray had started to infringe on his dark brown hair and mustache. Baggy skin around his eyes gave him a haggard appearance, yet his eyes twinkled welcome above a genuine smile.

Mae sat in the offered chair in front of the desk, her heart hammered in her chest. This job had to work.

Mr. Pinkerton plopped back into his chair. Esther Mae—

Please, I’m no longer Esther Mae Simmons. She was a misfit. Mae Simon is a Pinkerton operative. Mae smiled at the son of the founder of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

Mr. Pinkerton leaned back in his chair. His dark heavy-lidded eyes appraised her. She picked at the dowdy dress covering her bound breasts and patted her talc sprinkled hair. Her nose itched from the powder she used to make her face appear older. This ruse had, on more than one occasion, stifled concerns about her traveling alone.

I can see where your travels with the acting troupe will come in handy. He waved a hand. As I remember the last time we talked, you were years younger and hadn’t a gray hair on your head. He chuckled. Yes, you will do nicely.

She smiled. Finally, being the illegitimate child of a traveling actor assisted instead of alienated.

I was briefed on my first assignment. Believe me, Mr. Pinkerton, when I say I have launched myself into being the best operative you’ve ever had. You will not regret training me.

Your instructor spoke highly of your quick thinking and ability to fit in at all times. You’re going to need to think on your feet with your first assignment. It’s high priority. You have two months to find our client’s daughter and return her to Chicago to collect an inheritance from her great aunt. He leaned back. There shouldn’t be any danger. Her husband is a respected banker in Helena. Make contact with her and explain she has to return to Chicago to receive her inheritance. And if she’s willing…escort her back.

Don’t worry. I’ll see she returns in time. Mae and her trainer had spent the previous night planning her trip and discussing her options.

We have an informant in Helena. Her name is Sally Tupper. You’ll find her at this address. He handed her a slip of paper.

Mae raised an eyebrow. From the information I’ve gathered about Helena, this is in the tenderloin district.

We use whatever sources we can. She has a high class brothel that is frequented by some men of suspicion. We use what they tell her girls to help us. William leaned forward. Will you have a problem working with her?

Mae smiled. No, Mr. Pinkerton, I don’t have a problem mixing with madams and prostitutes. An outsider in her own family, she knew all about being ostracized. She'd never discriminate against others.

Good. When does your train leave?

This evening. I should be in Helena by the end of next week.

Then I expect to hear from you before the month is out.

Mr. Pinkerton slid an envelope across the desk. Since you’re new, I gave you an advance. Be sure you keep track of all your expenses. This will be deducted from what we owe you when you return with your numbers.

Mae dropped the envelope in her reticule and stood. She extended her hand. Thank you for giving me this chance.

He squeezed her hand. Show us what you’re made of and you could have a future here.

She nodded and left the office. Excitement bubbled, making her giddy. Her feet itched to dance. Her soles hit the wood walkway, and she did a little jig, throwing her arms in the air and ratta-tatting her boots on the boardwalk. People made a wide berth around her. Mae laughed and drew in a cleansing breath.

Tonight, she began a new life. No longer a dirty little secret shipped from relative to relative like an orphan.

Exhilaration, anticipation, and delight skittered through her body in delicious ripples. For the first time in her life she belonged. It might be a detective agency, but no one scoffed or ridiculed her.

She’d found her home the minute she began training as an operative. And no one cared about her background, only that she did the job. She would make them all proud. Even herself.

Best of all, her new life would allow her the opportunity to look for her father. She pulled the faded, wrinkled playbill out of her reticule. Her mother never told her about the man who gave her life. Only said he loved her and would return.

All she had to find her father were her grandfather’s foul-mouthed utterances and the playbill she’d found tucked in her mother’s dresser.

She read the crinkled paper. Shakespearian soliloquies by Taylor Bradford. That had to be his name. Taylor Bradford. It had a nice theatrical ring to it. Many times since finding the playbill she’d harbored the idea of using his last name, but shied away. She refused to use his name without first meeting the man. Better to be without a formal last name than be connected to one that held dishonor.

Mae slipped the paper back in her bag and strode down the street to the theater district. Her training had taken up all of her time. She had until the train left tonight to look for her father in Chicago.

Helena, Montana, a week later

U.S. Marshal Beck Harlan stood at the bar sipping whiskey and ignoring the dancehall girl vying for his attention. He winced when the woman pushed up against him. She smelled of cigar smoke, floral perfume, and stale whiskey. He didn’t mind the soft curves of a woman, but right now wasn’t the time. It took all his concentration to overhear a conversation a little farther down the bar.

He pulled a coin from his vest pocket and dropped it in the cleft between the breasts spilling over the woman’s low neckline.

I’ll visit with you later. He winked and pushed away from the bar. The two men walked through the head high cloud of cigar smoke toward the door.

Something familiar about the two nagged at him. He’d visit the sheriff’s office and see if he found them on a wanted poster. First, he had an appointment with the president of the Bank of Helena.

He stepped into the street, inhaled fresh summer air and scanned the street for the two men.

The afternoon stage charged by in a cloud of dust. Men on the conveyance and in the street hollered. The horses snorted at the billowing dust and sat on their haunches when the driver hauled back on the reins.

An old man next to him coughed and pointed. One of these days they’re gonna run over somebody.

Beck nodded. They’ll still drive like there’s a band of outlaws on their tail.

I reckon so, but don’t know why it’s so all fired important to get the mail and passengers here in such a hurry. The old man turned and shuffled into the mercantile.

Beck crossed the street and headed three blocks over. Twice now the military payroll for Fort Missoula had come up short. The last time it wasn’t just the payroll, government money sent to pay for supplies to finish building the fort didn’t arrive.

He stopped in front of the youngest bank in Helena, taking in the shiny windows and new brick jutting up two stories. Family connections had to be why this upstart bank received the contract to handle government money over the older established banks.

A well-dressed woman stepped out the door and snapped a parasol up to shield her fair skin from the hot July sun. Beck tipped his hat and held the door. She nodded without glancing his direction.

Ah, one of those. He’d noticed several women since entering town who dressed well and held their noses higher. Didn’t bother him. He didn’t plan on making friends or attachments here or anywhere. Not with the outlaw, Raging Roy, killing everyone who ever meant anything to him.

He entered the building and scanned the lobby. Two dapper dressed men stood behind the bars and counter. A short woman hustled from behind a desk in the corner.

Marshal Harlan, Mr. Lamont is expecting you. She smiled showing a hint of a dimple in her left rosy cheek. He followed her wide backside across the lobby to a dark wood door.

She raised a chubby hand, knocked once, and opened the door, announcing, U.S. Marshal Harlan is here.

Beck couldn’t help but grin at the young woman. Her smile was infectious, and her bright flushed face revealed a youthful excitement for life. She stood in front of the door and waved him in with her hand.

He entered the office, scanning the interior and sizing up the man he’d come to see.

Thank you, Carrie. Lamont stood behind a large desk and nodded to the woman. The door clicked shut, and the banker extended his hand across the top of the massive piece of furniture.

Beck grasped the man’s hand. Most bankers didn’t have a strong grip and calloused palm-this man did.

Mr. Lamont, thank you for seeing me. Beck removed his hat and sat in the leather chair. He didn’t take his gaze from the man and watched the bank president scrutinize his bandanna clad head.

He found the question most people asked about the bandanna humorous. Did the Injuns leave any skin? For some reason the idea he survived a scalping made him meaner in the eyes of others. They didn’t need to know he lost his hair from a childhood illness.

Marshal, your telegram said you wanted to meet, but you didn’t specify the topic of the meeting. Lamont sat down and leaned back in his stately, leather chair.

Beck scanned the interior of the room. New furniture, impressive collection of rifles and paintings. Expensive trappings, but most banks flaunted affluence to get rich investors.

I’m here in regards to the last two Ft. Missoula payrolls you held in your bank. He had to give the man credit. He didn’t flinch or twitch.

Why would a U.S. Marshal check up on the payroll?

Lamont could act or he didn’t know about the missing money.

Because the first payroll arrived with a thousand dollars less and the last was missing ten thousand. He leaned forward. Not only did some of the soldiers not get paid, but money allotted to finish construction of the fort didn’t arrive.

The man spread his hands, extending his arms out across the top of the desk. And I still don’t understand why you’re here. Shouldn’t you be looking into the person who divvies out the payroll?

His nonchalance came off as cocky. He wasn’t an easy man to break.

I’ve already been to the fort. I’m back tracking the money. Before it went to the fort, it was here for what, a week before someone picked it up? He spun his hat in his hands. I’d like to take a look at the records showing the receipt of the money. I’m assuming it was counted when it came in and left? There. Finally. Not much, but the man started to squint his eyes, then opened them as if realizing his action.

Lamont pushed his chair back and stood. Miss Peavey will help you with your request. He rounded the desk, strode to the door, and swung it wide open. Miss Peavey.

Beck stood and faced the door in time to witness the plump woman scurry across the lobby. She stopped outside the door and smiled at her boss with twinkling eyes. She was smitten.

Miss Peavey, please assist the marshal with the records he wishes to see. Lamont tipped his head toward the open door.

Beck held his hat in his hand and sauntered to the opening. He stopped in the doorway to peer down at the man who stood a good half-a-head shorter. Lamont wore a forced smile. His jaw twitched, and his light colored eyes stared, unflinching. Beck flashed a lazy grin and stepped out the door. Nothing fulfilled him like getting the goods on the slick ones. And Silas Lamont was as slick as they came.

Chapter Two

Mae waited for the other passengers to disembark from the Concord coach. Crammed in the conveyance the last five days with nine other passengers took a toll on her usual good humor. Her relaxing train ride ended in Ogden, Utah where she boarded the overcrowded Wells Fargo stage. She’d tolerated the first day. A new life and new adventure.

Today, her fifth day… she wanted away from people, and she wanted a bath. She’d banged knees with strangers and inhaled body odors she hadn’t encountered before.

She climbed down from the coach, rubbed her backside, and waited for the driver to drop down her valises. People bustled everywhere. This wasn’t a mining town. At least not like she’d imagined. The air crackled with the same energy as areas of Chicago. Commerce and people. The tall brick buildings with shiny windows along new plank boardwalks reflected the area’s affluence and promise of a bright future. She rolled her aching shoulders and smiled. Her future also looked brighter.

Her brief stint with a traveling troupe had taken her to mining towns. Tents, shacks, and the clang of manual labor. Helena surpassed that phase. This town embraced the wealth mining had inspired with gusto.

Her bags landed near her feet. She shaded her eyes against the midday sun and glanced up at the driver.

Thank you. Could you tell me where to find a hotel?

She’d traveled all the way from Chicago as Vivian Creswell, Rayanne Lamont’s cousin. She repositioned the spectacles riding low on her nose and poked stray strands of hair into her bun. Talc clung to her black gloves. She rubbed them on her dowdy gray dress and checked her bodice to make sure the buttons remained fastened all the way up to her chin.

She stared at the man over her spectacles and pursed her lips in distaste. The driver grabbed another bag and tossed it down, ignoring the feeble wave of her gloved hand.

Sir? Sir?

He continued to toss baggage to the ground.

Sir! She raised her voice in a nasally twang.

He grunted and glanced her way.

Where might I find a decent hotel?

His gaze raked down her body. A smirk curled one lip. Try the Cosmopolitan. He pointed down the street.

Mae twisted at the waist and peered the direction he indicated. Two and three story buildings loomed on either side of the dirt roadway, fencing in horses, wagons, and people. She gripped a valise in each hand and marched into the street. Dust billowed around her drab brown skirt. She dodged horses, buggies, and foul-mouthed freighters.

Her stiff legs ached under the extra weight of the valises as she stepped up onto the board walk. Hordes of people whisked by, the woman’s skirts scraping and tugging on her own. She studied the faces and attire. Half the population dressed upper class, the others wore clothing much like hers or shabbier.

People intrigued her. She never knew when she’d spot a person she could imitate. Her job as a Pinkerton required her to observe people. Giddiness overtook her at all the freedom this new job allowed.

Even though William Pinkerton didn’t believe she would run into trouble, she’d discussed the assignment with her trainer. They both wondered at the woman not contacting her family after settling in Helena.

A woman who married and traveled a great distance from her family would remain in contact with her relatives. Especially with the closeness she’d discovered about Rayanne’s family. Something wasn’t right. No doubt the husband was behind it.

Mae read all the newspapers during the time of the marriage. The two month courtship ended in matrimony. Hardly enough time to get to know one another. Her own parentage offered proof.

She glanced at the shiny windows of a new building across the street. Bank of Helena. Rayanne’s husband was the president. Her father procured the Pinkerton Agency to investigate the suitor, Silas Lamont. Nothing untoward could be found about the man, and Rayanne begged for her father’s acceptance. After the wedding, the two left Chicago. The parents had yet to hear from their daughter, making it hard to contact her about the inheritance left to her by a great aunt.

All the information pointed to the husband being untruthful. That’s why Mae traveled in disguise as the woman’s cousin. She didn’t trust this man she had yet to meet.

She pushed her way to the outside of the boardwalk and spotted the Cosmopolitan Hotel. The appearance of the four-story brick structure with a smaller annex sporting the name of the hotel was well kept and inviting. Impressive brick work adorned the crown. The top three floors hosted wrought-iron balconies along the front of the building. The affluent, clean appearance tugged her lips into a smile.

Mae stepped into the busy street, dodged the traffic, and tread on the boardwalk in front of the hotel. At the door of the Cosmopolitan, she set the bags down and shook her arms. One valise held her regular clothes, and one held her costumes. She gave into the heavy weight of the bags pulling on her arms, slouched, and entered the establishment.

The high ceiling, fancy hanging gaslight, dark wood, and impressive, highly-polished counter made it easy to stay in character. Mae walked slow and spun in circles, openly admiring the lobby. She set her bags on the ground and clutched her hands to her chest in rapt admiration. In her peripheral vision, she scanned the people in the lobby. All watched her with amused smiles. Retrieving her valises, she continued to the registration desk.

The clerk behind the tall mahogany counter finished his conversation about a cattle meeting with a well-dressed man. Both men briefly glanced her way then started another subject. Mae dropped the valises at her feet and waited picking at the lint and dust on her gloves.

She listened to the men, watching them from under her downcast eyelashes. The older man, dressed in a fine wool suit left and the blond clerk aimed his mustached face her direction.

How may I help you?

I’d like to rent a room, please. She wavered a timid smile and downcast her gaze.

For how long? He spun the register her direction.

I’m not sure. Maybe two days? I’m visiting my cousin, and I’m not sure if she’ll wish me to stay with her. She leaned in slightly. She’s a newlywed. Mae wrinkled her nose suggesting the thought of being married an awful institution.

The man smiled and nodded. And who is your newly married cousin?

Rayanne Lamont. She held her breath and watched the man’s mustache lift with his growing smile.

Well, any cousin of Mrs. Lamont is most welcome here. He handed her the quill and ink pot.

Mae dipped the tip in the pot and signed, Vivian Creswell.

Miss Creswell, welcome to Helena. If there is anything you need be sure to ask.

Thank you. There are two things if you don’t mind. Where might I find my cousin? And would you please have a bath drawn for me in an hour? She picked up her valises anxious to deposit them in the room and find Mrs. Lamont.

The bath I can do. As for your cousin, you should ask her husband. You can find him at the Bank of Helena about two blocks down and on the opposite side of the street. He handed her a key. You’re in room twelve. And you’ll find the water closet just down the hall.

Thank you. Mae climbed the wide carpeted stairs and sauntered down the gas lit hall. She found the door marked with a carved wooden number twelve and entered.

Her gaze swept the ample-sized room. A tall bed much like the one she slept on at her grandparents’ mansion sat to the right of a window. Lace draped the sides of the opening overlooking the balcony and street. A dark wood nightstand and kerosene lamp with hand-painted flowers on the shade stood under the window. Along the other wall, several pegs, head height, jutted out next to a small bureau topped with a floral china pitcher and bowl.

She dropped the valises on the floor by the bureau and peered into the mirror above. An older, more haggard woman stared back. No wonder the men had all ignored her. She easily passed for a spinster sour on mankind.

Mae laughed and picked up her reticule. While she looked the part, she might as well pay a visit to Mr. Lamont. If all went well, she’d contact Rayanne today and spend tomorrow looking for her father in the theatre district.

A shiver shimmied up her backbone. She wasn’t prone to the superstitions of her grandparents’ servants, but the sensation left her wondering if this first assignment would be as easy as William Pinkerton thought.

Chapter Three

Beck stretched his back and settled his hat on his head. Both incoming fort payrolls were counted and verified by Silas Lamont, bank president. Both outgoing fort payrolls bore Carrie Peavey’s signature. He’d bet his last two month’s wages Miss Peavey didn’t count the money, but signed her signature at her boss’ request. The short exchange he’d witnessed earlier proved the pudgy woman was smitten with her dapper boss.

He left the back room of the bank and searched the lobby for Miss Peavey. The woman’s desk sat in the corner unoccupied. Beck glanced at Lamont’s closed office door and strolled to the closest clerk.

I’d like a word with Miss Peavey. Could you rustle her up? He leaned against the counter to lower his six-three frame enough to peer through the bars at the clerk.

She stepped out. The scrawny clerk took a step back.

Out where? No doubt Lamont sent her on an errand.

Not sure. The clerk took another step backwards. Said she may not be back before we closed.

Beck ground his teeth and straightened. His gut rarely let him down. Lamont