clarification.
“Patrolman, would you care for a glass of whiskey?”
He made noises as if to decline, then accepted. Beneath Mrs. Fenster’s baleful eye I fetched a glass and the bottle and poured him three fingers myself. This might have been overdoing it but I sensed that was his usual dose, and he had a look of great peace as I handed it to him.
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Sadlaw.”
“I’m told he was quite a brute, is that so?” I looked over at the boy, who watched the proceedings from the doorway of the studio, and at Mrs. Fenster, who would, I hoped, deny my claim.
“He was a sweet, gentle man, my sister’s husband, and I’ll not have you slandering him,” she said to my great pleasure. She daubed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Still, what my friend Banbury—you know him, the editor of the Bulletin , where the dead man worked—Banbury told me he was a thug and a ruffian, with any number of people might have wanted him dead.”
Mrs. Fenster wisely kept quiet this time, and the copper spoke next. “Matter of fact, we talked at some length with Mr. Banbury, and he agreed we ought to take a look at the two sisters. We said, Oh, we’re going to do just that.” My eye happened to be on Lem when the cop added, “He also thought we might have a word or two with the addled son, the one works for you.” The boy slowly closed the studio door, and Heinecker remained oblivious to his presence. He was halfway through his glass and seemed quite content.
“Still, it’s not much of a loss, is it? You’re right, what we’re hearing is what a mean, quick-tempered son of a bitch he was, begging your pardon, Mrs. Fenster, including how he cracked the boy’s arm a few nights ago. Is that right? It was the boy’s sister who told us that, a little tiny girl, and she seemed more relieved than grieving at her papa’s passing.”
“It’s true, the boy’s arm’s broken.”
“Is he here?”
“I sent him to the depot to pick up a parcel. Don’t know when he’ll return.”
Heinecker knocked back the rest of the whiskey, and I would have offered him another glass but I didn’t want to seem too eager to see him off his stride. “That’s fine. I’ll be back bytomorrow. Meantime, you keep an eye on the woman and the boy.” He rose and headed for the door with his cap even more askew than before, and he walked with his fingers outstretched to meet the wallpaper. Going down the steps to the front door he had both hands on the left-hand balustrade, and he had to wait for a half a minute before opening the door to the exterior. The citizens of Denver were by no means unaccustomed at that time to inebriated policemen, but I hoped I had pushed his drunkenness to the point where a complaint might be made. Still, if he didn’t return, one of his colleagues would, and before I spoke to Mrs. Fenster about the whole business I wanted to verify something.
I went to my room and opened the bottom drawer of my dresser. At its bottom was a bundle, wrapped not in the canvas sheet I had used, but in a piece of gunnysack. I placed it on the bed and unwrapped it; inside was a wooden case with a lock, and within that my long-ago trophy the Baby Dragoon. When I had put it away it was pristine, cleaned and oiled and polished and damned near as pretty as the day it left the Colt factory, or at any rate prettier than the day I took it off an insolent drummer in my Cottonwood saloon. Today it lay before me, cleaned after firing but hastily and not well, a whiff of Lucifer’s domain lingering in its barrel. I placed it back in the case, wrapped it back up in the rough cloth, and replaced it in the drawer, then sat down for a long think about what sort of discussion I was going to have with my housekeeper.
H ALF AN HOUR later I returned to the gallery and found her sweeping the floor. She stopped to face me, perfectly impassive, as though daring me to make a mention of her crime, or what she had used to commit
“Patrolman, would you care for a glass of whiskey?”
He made noises as if to decline, then accepted. Beneath Mrs. Fenster’s baleful eye I fetched a glass and the bottle and poured him three fingers myself. This might have been overdoing it but I sensed that was his usual dose, and he had a look of great peace as I handed it to him.
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Sadlaw.”
“I’m told he was quite a brute, is that so?” I looked over at the boy, who watched the proceedings from the doorway of the studio, and at Mrs. Fenster, who would, I hoped, deny my claim.
“He was a sweet, gentle man, my sister’s husband, and I’ll not have you slandering him,” she said to my great pleasure. She daubed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Still, what my friend Banbury—you know him, the editor of the Bulletin , where the dead man worked—Banbury told me he was a thug and a ruffian, with any number of people might have wanted him dead.”
Mrs. Fenster wisely kept quiet this time, and the copper spoke next. “Matter of fact, we talked at some length with Mr. Banbury, and he agreed we ought to take a look at the two sisters. We said, Oh, we’re going to do just that.” My eye happened to be on Lem when the cop added, “He also thought we might have a word or two with the addled son, the one works for you.” The boy slowly closed the studio door, and Heinecker remained oblivious to his presence. He was halfway through his glass and seemed quite content.
“Still, it’s not much of a loss, is it? You’re right, what we’re hearing is what a mean, quick-tempered son of a bitch he was, begging your pardon, Mrs. Fenster, including how he cracked the boy’s arm a few nights ago. Is that right? It was the boy’s sister who told us that, a little tiny girl, and she seemed more relieved than grieving at her papa’s passing.”
“It’s true, the boy’s arm’s broken.”
“Is he here?”
“I sent him to the depot to pick up a parcel. Don’t know when he’ll return.”
Heinecker knocked back the rest of the whiskey, and I would have offered him another glass but I didn’t want to seem too eager to see him off his stride. “That’s fine. I’ll be back bytomorrow. Meantime, you keep an eye on the woman and the boy.” He rose and headed for the door with his cap even more askew than before, and he walked with his fingers outstretched to meet the wallpaper. Going down the steps to the front door he had both hands on the left-hand balustrade, and he had to wait for a half a minute before opening the door to the exterior. The citizens of Denver were by no means unaccustomed at that time to inebriated policemen, but I hoped I had pushed his drunkenness to the point where a complaint might be made. Still, if he didn’t return, one of his colleagues would, and before I spoke to Mrs. Fenster about the whole business I wanted to verify something.
I went to my room and opened the bottom drawer of my dresser. At its bottom was a bundle, wrapped not in the canvas sheet I had used, but in a piece of gunnysack. I placed it on the bed and unwrapped it; inside was a wooden case with a lock, and within that my long-ago trophy the Baby Dragoon. When I had put it away it was pristine, cleaned and oiled and polished and damned near as pretty as the day it left the Colt factory, or at any rate prettier than the day I took it off an insolent drummer in my Cottonwood saloon. Today it lay before me, cleaned after firing but hastily and not well, a whiff of Lucifer’s domain lingering in its barrel. I placed it back in the case, wrapped it back up in the rough cloth, and replaced it in the drawer, then sat down for a long think about what sort of discussion I was going to have with my housekeeper.
H ALF AN HOUR later I returned to the gallery and found her sweeping the floor. She stopped to face me, perfectly impassive, as though daring me to make a mention of her crime, or what she had used to commit
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