Airship Hunters (13 page)

After Cabot requested Bibb to keep his ears open and gave the name of the agents’ hotel, the visitors departed. Back on Main Street, Valiantine asked, “What’s next?”

Cabot smiled. “I must apologize. I’ve taken charge since we’ve been here. You probably are quite insulted in how little I’ve included you as a true partner.”

“No,” Valiantine said. “This is your town. I’ve been watching you operate in it. You have a wealth of resources—knowledge, connections—that I have little to add to. It makes sense for you to lead the way. You are familiar with the territory.”

“Very well. With your allowance, we’ll make one more stop before we dine and retire to our hotel.”

“And that stop?”

“A new hat requires another accessory.” Cabot patted his coat pocket. It held the Smith and Wesson pistol he’d carried since the agents’ previous investigation.

Cabot led Valiantine to a storefront on West Jefferson. The painted sign over its door read, SEBASTIAN KONZ ~ GUNSMITH.

Inside, Cabot was greeted warmly by the proprietor, to whom he introduced his partner. The round-faced gunsmith had thick yellow hair and a drooping mustache that hid his mouth. His yellow-and-brown plaid vest carried dark stains. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, but his hands appeared delicate. Shaking hands with him quickly put that notion to rest.

Konz asked Cabot, “You’ll want that item you mentioned in your letter, Billy?”

“Yes, Sebastian.”

“I have it ready.”

Cabot removed his coat so the gunsmith could fit him with a leather shoulder holster. He made some adjustments, then helped the agent put on his coat. “How does it feel?”

“Not bad,” Cabot said. “A little close here.” He patted his armpit. “But Mr. Bibb can fix that, I’m sure.”

“Now,” Konz said, “you’ll need a revolver for that rig.”

While he pulled out from display cases three pistols for Cabot to handle, the agent asked, “Have you had any large orders for rifles? Military grade, not for personal use. Or heard of anyone receiving such an order?”

Konz paused in handing Cabot one of the guns. “No, not that I can think of. How large?”

“Anything out of the ordinary. More than you would expect just a family to order.”

“No,” Konz said. “I sold an order for six Belgian shotguns for the New Albany Hunt Club about eight months ago. But nothing since then. And I haven’t heard of anything from the other gun shops. Sometimes we help each other fill a large order like that if we have it in stock. And any other sort of large order would get talked about at some point. No, Billy, I’m sorry.”

“No, Sebastian, no need to be sorry. Just following a hunch.” He hefted each pistol in turn, practiced aiming at an elk’s head mounted on the back wall of the store. “This one has a nice weight.”

“That’s a nice little Colt’s Single Action Army revolver. Also called the Sheriff’s Model. The balance is a little different than your typical sidearm, because the barrel is only three and a half inches long. It will fit fine in that shoulder rig, but you better practice pulling and shooting it. Also, with the shorter barrel, there’s no ejector pin. So you can’t reload quickly—you have to pull out each empty cartridge.”

“Okay.”

“You may want to carry another handgun—if you need to reload but don’t have the time.”

Cabot heard Valiantine clear his throat. The lieutenant said, “You’re trading one gun for two.”

Cabot looked at the Colt in his hand and hefted it. “I’ll stick with this. I have a pocket gun if I need it. But I’ll need some shells.”

Leaving the gunsmith, the two agents started walking toward their hotel. Valiantine asked, “You think someone is stockpiling an arsenal?”

“No. But it’s worth asking the question. Louisville was officially a Union town, but there were plenty of Rebel sympathizers here during the war. An entire network of spies, too. Yankee Bligh broke up more than one ring of spies and assassins.”

Cabot saw a frown furrow the lieutenant’s brow. “You think this is a plot to raise the Confederacy?”

The younger agent sighed heavily. “No. I don’t know. Yankee Bligh would say I should let the case grow out of the clues instead of spinning possibilities. He’d say, ‘You’re putting the cart before the horse.’ He’d be right. But the dates on the coins, a stranger in uniform—it makes me wonder. And a plot to wreck the Portland Canal could be devastating to local businesses and river traffic all along the Ohio. And the Mississppi.” He glanced at his partner. “What do you think?”

Valiantine continued to frown. “It’s worth considering. Especially after what happened in Detroit.”

The dining room of The Phoenix was a large oval. Its linen-draped tables were busy with merchants conducting business over food, travelers eating alone, and one couple whose antics suggested they were recently wed.

Cabot and Valiantine ate salt-cured ham, roasted potatoes, crowder peas, boiled greens, and hard-boiled eggs. They shared a bottle of red wine and ate slowly, pausing between bites for conversation.

The lieutenant said, “I must be honest and say you’ve impressed me. You know this town, you have solid connections, and clearly you’ve earned the respect of many men. Chief Taylor, perhaps, excluded.”

“I’ve had the Chief’s respect for some things. Some disdain for others. I think in some way he is simply disappointed I left the department.”

“I see. But you’ve renewed all these professional relationships. Don’t you have family you want to see?”

Cabot watched the wine in his glass as he swirled it. “I have no family to visit. I grew up at the Masonic Widows and Orphans home.”

“I’m sorry, Cabot, I didn’t mean to...”

“No, that’s fine. Really, when Yankee Bligh took me under his wing, that was the first time I had anything quite like a family. But he died seven years ago. I suppose doing the best job I can as a Treasury agent is my way of thanking him for all he taught me.”

Valiantine cleared his throat. “How seriously do you consider this Confederate angle?” he asked.

“It’s just a possibility so far, like everything else we’ve thought of,” Cabot said. “We don’t have enough hard evidence to give weight to one thing over another.”

“That bandit, Awanai—he apparently is vicious enough to destroy any threat. But a Southern sympathizer? For some reason, it seems unlikely.”

“Do you suppose there’s a movement afoot unconnected to the Confederacy? Some other secessionist group?”

“An overthrow of the existing government? Or a conspiracy to build a separate country within the nation? Aaron Burr plotted to accomplish the latter. Some of his work took place along the Ohio River, too, if my memory is correct.”

“It could be either type of conspiracy, based on the little we know.”

The lieutenant sighed into his napkin. “I’m not sure we know enough even to call it a little, at this point.”

“And you’ve no other notions about how much Carnavon and Awanai looked alike? According to the information we requested, Carnavon had no twin, nor a male sibling.”

Valiantine tossed his napkin to the table in frustration. “Nothing.”

The hotel concierge approached with an envelope. “Detective Cabot, I apologize for the interruption. A messenger arrived and said it was urgent.”

With a nod, Cabot took the note. “No longer a detective, Nick. You can call me Mister. This is my partner, Michael Valiantine. Nick Gardner has helped me with many cases.” Nick patted Cabot’s shoulder and left. The agent opened the note. “Your boss, Wellington. Wants to know what we’ve found.”

The familiar furrow appeared on Valiantine’s brow. He took the note from Cabot, perused it, then folded and slid it into his vest pocket. He made a sound of disgust.

Cabot dabbed his napkin to his lips. “What now?”

Valiantine scowled and stood. “I’m going to soak my feet. Then I’m going to bed. You?”

“A drink first, I think.”

Valiantine nodded. Cabot watched him leave the dining room. Then the agent got up from the table and left the room. But he didn’t go into the bar. Instead, he exited the building.

The two Aero-Marshals met again in the dining room for breakfast: fried eggs, smoked sausage, beaten biscuits with butter and sorghum, grits with red-eye gravy, and fried apples with a pot of black coffee. Valiantine paused in spearing together a piece of sausage and a flap of egg white. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned over your food. Bad bed?”

“Late to bed. I visited a brothel last night.”

Valiantine’s face turned red and he began to choke on the food he’d just swallowed. A passing waiter whacked him solidly on the back until the lieutenant waved him off.

He was guzzling coffee to clear his throat when Cabot said, “Actually, I went to three.”

Valiantine spewed coffee back into his cup. Tears ran from his eyes. “Good God, stop!”

Cabot waved a nonchalant gesture with his fork. “Oh, sorry, no, nothing of that nature. Purely professional interest. Bontonne supposed our quarry was retired from the military, and service men are known to visit such businesses. Indeed, if he wanted to remain hard to find, he may have taken up residence at one of the more reputable establishments.”

Valiantine had gotten his breathing back to normal. After a last gasp, he asked, “What did you learn?”

“Not what I hoped, unfortunately. No customers in unfamiliar uniforms, or uniforms that had their insignia removed. But I learned that men with unusual accents had been paying for services the past two weeks.”

“’Unusual accents’?” Valiantine drank more coffee. “The town is full of fresh immigrants. And boat crews from up and down the river are bound to pronounce words differently than the locals.”

“The ladies are very familiar with just the things you mention. But the men they described had a distinctive accent, they said. And all the same sort of accent. One or two of the women asked these customers where they hailed from.”

“And the answer?”

“Vague responses. One telling answer, however, that a wise-eyed lady remembered was ‘the Northern Tier.’”

“That’s not a description you hear often. New England, isn’t it?”

“I think so. But I’ve never heard anyone say ‘the Northern Tier’ in a conversation as the place he calls home. Why not name a town or state?”

Valiantine nodded. “Sounds evasive. Odd.” He frowned at his partner. “How did you know where to go?”

“You know I once worked for the police department. One learns much of life in that job. And, in the case of any new establishments, I simply read the newspaper advertisements—one must know the right phrases to look for.”

“Hmmph. Why didn’t you take me? Or at least tell me where you were going?”

“Sorry. I didn’t know how you would take the suggestion.”

“I’m a military man, Cabot, not a priest. And we agreed for each to keep the other informed.”

While Valiantine spoke, Nick Gardner appeared again, bearing another note. Valiantine read this one. “Assistant Director Gallows this time. Wants to know what we’ve learned.” The lieutenant tucked the paper into his breast pocket. “They’re certainly anxious about our progress.”

Now a waiter handed Cabot a folded note. After reading it, the agent looked up with an energized expression. “Mr. Bibb has news. River men reported seeing lights in the clouds over the river last night. And a fellow ‘wearing a strange outfit’ has been asking odd questions of wharf workers.”

The two picked up their hats and started for the street. Valiantine asked, “Are we going to walk again?”

“It’s not that far.”

Just outside the front door of The Phoenix, a uniformed policeman dashed up to the pair. “Mr. Cabot! Chief Taylor has something for you to see.”

“Headquarters?”

“No, Mr. Cabot. The mortuary.”

Cabot’s eyebrows rose. He turned to Valiantine. “Your feet are in luck. We’ll need a cab.”

Police Chief Taylor stood inside the door of the mortuary. He offered no greeting, only a scowl.

“The details you offered me suggested your investigation delves into the unusual,” he said. “The evidence inside should meet those qualifications.”

The Aero-Marshals followed Taylor along a hallway and down stairs. Through a black door, they entered a chilly room, brightly lit, with a slab at its center.

“Dear God.”

Cabot didn’t hear Valiantine’s ejaculation. He was swallowed by a sense of drowning. All his senses focused on the body lying atop the slab. The head and limbs were torn from the torso, which was slashed deeply enough to expose the broken ribs and the mangled organs within. The parts had been arranged in their proper places on the slab, but the gaps between the pieces remained. The image brought to mind the fate Cabot had escaped in Kansas. His chest tightened against his ability to breathe.

He gulped a deep breath and gathered his wits before Taylor’s scrutiny.

“Recognize him?” the chief asked.

Cabot answered, “No. Any information?”

“Found along the riverside by an old man collecting driftwood. Northeast of the wharf, just after dawn. Spread over an area about twenty square yards. The left foot, you’ll notice, is missing. We think it’s lost in the river.”