E-text prepared by Al Haines
TANGLED TRAILS
A Western Detective Story
by
WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE
Author of
The Big-Town Round-Up, Gunsight Pass, Etc.
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1921, by William Macleod Raine
All Rights Reserved
Third Impression, March, 1922
CONTENTS
I. NO ALTRUIST
II. WILD ROSE TAKES THE DUST
III. FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD
IV. NOT ALWAYS TWO TO MAKE A QUARREL
V. COUSINS MEET
VI. LIGHTS OUT
VII. FOUL PLAY
VIII. BY MEANS OF THE FIRE ESCAPE
IX. THE STORY IN THE "NEWS"
X. KIRBY ASKS A DIRECT QUESTION
XI. THE CORONER'S INQUEST
XII. "THAT'S THE MAN"
XIII. "ALWAYS, PHYLLIS"
XIV. A FRIEND IN NEED
XV. A GLOVE AND THE HAND IN IT
XVI. THE LADY WITH THE VIOLET PERFUME
XVII. IN DRY VALLEY
XVIII. "BURNIN' A HOLE IN MY POCKET"
XIX. A DISCOVERY
XX. THE BRASS BED
XXI. JAMES LOSES HIS TEMPER
XXII. "ARE YOU WITH ME OR AGAINST ME?"
XXIII. COUSINS DISAGREE
XXIV. REVEREND NICODEMUS RANKIN FORGETS AND REMEMBERS
XXV. A CONFERENCE OF THREE
XXVI. CUTTING TRAIL
XXVII. THE DETECTIVE GETS TWO SURPRISES
XXVIII. THE FINGER OF SUSPICION POINTS
XXIX. "COME CLEAN, JACK"
XXX. KIRBY MAKES A CALL
XXXI. THE MASK OF THE RED BANDANNA
XXXII. JACK TAKES OFF HIS COAT
XXXIII. OLSON TELLS A STORY
XXXIV. FROM THE FIRE ESCAPE
XXXV. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
XXXVI. A RIDE IN A TAXI
XXXVII. ON THE GRILL
XXXVIII. A FULL MORNING
XXXIX. KIRBY INVITES HIMSELF TO A RIDE
XL. THE MILLS OF THE GODS
XLI. ENTER _X_
XLII. THE NEW WORLD
TANGLED TRAILS
CHAPTER I
NO ALTRUIST
Esther McLean brought the afternoon mail in to Cunningham. She put it
on the desk before him and stood waiting, timidly, afraid to voice her
demand for justice, yet too desperately anxious to leave with it
unspoken.
He leaned back in his swivel chair, his cold eyes challenging her.
"Well," he barked harshly.
She was a young, soft creature, very pretty in a kittenish fashion,
both sensuous and helpless. It was an easy guess that unless fortune
stood her friend she was a predestined victim to the world's selfish
love of pleasure, and fortune, with a cynical smile, had stood aside
and let her go her way.
"I . . . I . . ." A wave of color flooded her face. She twisted a rag
of a handkerchief into a hard wadded knot.
"Spit it out," he ordered curtly.
"I've got to do something . . . soon. Won't you--won't you--?" There
was a wail of despair in the unfinished sentence.
James Cunningham was a grim, gray pirate, as malleable as cast iron and
as soft. He was a large, big-boned man, aggressive, dominant, the kind
that takes the world by the throat and shakes success from it. The
contour of his hook-nosed face had something rapacious written on it.
"No. Not till I get good and ready. I've told you I'd look out for
you if you'd keep still. Don't come whining at me. I won't have it."
"But--"
Already he was ripping letters open and glancing over them. Tears
brimmed the brown eyes of the girl. She bit her lower lip, choked back
a sob, and turned hopelessly away. Her misfortune lay at her own door.
She knew that. But-- The woe in her heart was that the man she had
loved was leaving her to face alone a night as bleak as death.
Cunningham had always led a life of intelligent selfishness. He had
usually got what he wanted because he was strong enough to take it. No
scrupulous nicety of means had ever deterred him. Nor ever would. He
played his own hand with a cynical disregard of the rights of others.
It was this that had made him what he was, a man who bulked large in
the sight of the city and state. Long ago he had made up his mind that
altruism was weakness.
He went through his mail with a swift, trained eye. One of the letters
he laid aside and glanced at a second time. It brought a grim, hard
smile to his lips. A paragraph read:
There's no water in your ditch and our crops are burning up. Your
whole irrigation system in Dry Valley is a fake. You knew it, but we
didn't. You've skinned us out of all we had, you damned bloodsucker.
If you ever come up here we'll dry-gulch you, sure.
The letter was signed, "One You Have Robbed." Attached to it was a
clipping from a small-town paper telling of a meeting of farmers to ask
the United States District Attorney for an investigation of the Dry
Valley irrigation project promoted by James Cunningham.
The promoter smiled. He was not afraid of the Government. He had kept
strictly within the law. It was not his fault there was not enough
rainfall in the watershed to irrigate the valley. But the threat to
dry-gulch him was another matter. He had no fancy for being shot in
the back. Some crazy fool of a settler might do just that. He decided
to let an agent attend to his Dry Valley affairs hereafter. He
dictated some letters, closed his desk, and went down the street toward
the City Club. At a florist's he stopped and ordered a box of American
Beauties to be sent to Miss Phyllis Harriman. With these he enclosed
his card, a line of greeting scrawled on it.
A poker game was on at the club and Cunningham sat in. He interrupted
it to dine, holding his seat by leaving a pile of chips at the place.
When he cashed in his winnings and went downstairs it was still early.
As a card-player he was not popular. He was too keen on the main
chance and he nearly always won. In spite of his loud and frequent
laugh, of the effect of bluff geniality, there was no genuine humor in
the man, none of the milk of human kindness.
A lawyer in the reading-room rose at sight of Cunningham. "Want to see
you a minute," he said.
"Let's go into the Red Room."
He led the way to a small room furnished with a desk, writing supplies,
and a telephone. It was for the use of members who wanted to be
private. The lawyer shut the door.
"Afraid I've bad news for you, Cunningham," he said.
The other man's steady eyes did not waver. He waited silently.
"I was at Golden to-day on business connected with a divorce case. By
chance I ran across a record that astonished me. It may be only a
coincidence of names, but--"
"Now you've wrapped up the blackjack so that it won't hurt, suppose you
go ahead and hit me over the head with it," suggested Cunningham dryly.
The lawyer told what he knew. The promoter took it with no evidence of
feeling other than that which showed in narrowed eyes hard as diamonds
and a clenched jaw in which the muscles stood out like ropes.
"Much obliged, Foster," he said, and the lawyer knew he was dismissed.
Cunningham paced the room for a few moments, then rang for a messenger.
He wrote a note and gave it to the boy to be delivered. Then he left
the club.
From Seventeenth Street he walked across to the Paradox Apartments
where he lived. He found a note propped up against a book on the table
of his living-room. It had been written by the Japanese servant he
shared with two other bachelors who lived in the same building.
Mr. Hull he come see you. He sorry you not here. He say maybe perhaps
make honorable call some other time.
It was signed, "S. Horikawa."
Cunningham tossed the note aside. He had no wish to see Hull. The
fellow was becoming a nuisance. If he had any complaint he could go to
the courts with it. That was what they were for.
The doorbell rang. The promoter opened to a big, barrel-bodied man who
pushed past him into the room.
"What you want, Hull?" demanded Cunningham curtly.
The man thrust his bull neck forward. A heavy roll of fat swelled over
the collar. "You know damn well what I want. I want what's comin' to
me. My share of the Dry Valley clean-up. An' I'm gonna have it. See?"
"You've had every cent you'll get. I told you that before."
Tiny red capillaries seamed the beefy face of the fat man. "An' I told
you I was gonna have a divvy. An' I am. You can't throw down Cass
Hull an' get away with it. Not none." The shallow protuberant eyes
glittered threateningly.
"Thought you knew me better," Cunningham retorted contemptuously.
"When I say I won't, I won't. Go to a lawyer if you think you've got a
case. Don't come belly-aching to me."
The face of the fat man was apoplectic. "Like sin I'll go to a lawyer.
You'd like that fine, you double-crossin' sidewinder. I'll come with a
six-gun. That's how I'll come. An' soon. I'll give you two days to
come through. Two days. If you don't--hell sure enough will cough."
Whatever else could be said about Cunningham he was no coward. He met
the raving man eye to eye.
"I don't scare worth a cent, Hull. Get out. _Pronto_. And don't come
back unless you want me to turn you over to the police for a
blackmailing crook."
Cunningham was past fifty-five and his hair was streaked with gray.
But he stood straight as an Indian, six feet in his socks. The sap of
strength still rang strong in him. In the days when he had ridden the
range he had been famous for his stamina and he was even yet a
formidable two-fisted fighter.
But Hull was beyond prudence. "I'll go when I get ready, an' I'll come
back when I get ready," he boasted.
There came a soft thud of a hard fist on fat flesh, the crash of a
heavy bulk against the door. After that things moved fast. Hull's
body reacted to the pain of smashing blows falling swift and sure.
Before he knew what had taken place he was on the landing outside on
his way to the stairs. He hit the treads hard and rolled on down.
A man coming upstairs helped him to his feet.
"What's up?" the man asked.
Hull glared at him, for the moment speechless. His eyes were venomous,
his mouth a thin, cruel slit. He pushed the newcomer aside, opened the
door of the apartment opposite, went in, and slammed it after him.
The man who had assisted him to rise was dark and immaculately dressed.
"I judge Uncle James has been exercising," he murmured before he took
the next flight of stairs.
On the door of apartment 12 was a legend in Old English engraved on a
calling card. It said:
James Cunningham
The visitor pushed the electric bell. Cunningham opened to him.
"Good-evening, Uncle," the younger man said. "Your elevator is not
running, so I walked up. On the way I met a man going down. He seemed
rather in a hurry."
"A cheap blackmailer trying to bold me up. I threw him out."
"Thought he looked put out," answered the younger man, smiling
politely. "I see you still believe in applying direct energy to
difficulties."
"I do. That's why I sent for you." The promoter's cold eyes were
inscrutable. "Come in and shut the door."
The young man sauntered in. He glanced at his uncle curiously from his
sparkling black eyes. What the devil did James, Senior, mean by what
he had said? Was there any particular significance in it?
He stroked his small black mustache. "Glad to oblige you any way I
can, sir."
"Sit down."
The young Beau Brummel hung up his hat and cane, sank into the easiest
chair in the room, and selected a cigarette from a gold-initialed case.
"At your service, sir," he said languidly.