The River Rose (11 page)

She knocked on his door and called out, but no welcoming answer came. She was strangely crestfallen, and went into the empty room feeling disappointed. But staunchly she told herself,
Jeanne, you are a plain fool. What did you expect?
Vigorously she began her cleaning, determining not to entertain one more moment's consideration of George Masters.

Only one guest was resident in Jeanne's list of rooms, and he gave her a belated Christmas one-dollar tip, which cheered her up. One-third of a pair of new leather half-boots. On her last room the guest had already checked out, so she left the door open. When she was almost finished she was surprised to look up and see Mrs. Wiedemann come into the room with a gentleman.

"Jeanne? This gentleman needs to speak with you," she said curtly, and left.

Jeanne stood still, her window-cleaning rag in hand, and studied him. He was a man of average height and build, nattily dressed in a gray suit. He had an unassuming air and countenance, with a neat, trim graying mustache and beard and sensitive long fingers grasping a top hat. But his eyes were dark and his gaze intense as he regarded Jeanne. "Good day, Mrs. Bettencourt," he said, nodding his head. "My name is Nathaniel Deshler. I apologize for the unorthodox manner of making your acquaintance, but under the circumstances it was all I could do."

"Oh? And what circumstances are those?" Jeanne cautiously asked.

"I am an attorney, and one of my clients has a legal matter that concerns you, Mrs. Bettencourt."

Jeanne blanched. "What? Am I in some sort of trouble?"

"No, no," he said, shaking his head and coming closer to her. "Not at all, ma'am. I am so sorry, this is a rather complicated situation, and I'm handling it badly. Please, could we sit down for just a moment?" He motioned toward the tea table and chairs.

"Yes, I suppose," Jeanne said reluctantly.

When they were seated Deshler said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, I will tell you plainly all that I can. My client is deceased, and I believe you are a distant relative of his. If this is true, then you are a beneficiary of his will. Understanding that, I need to ask you if you have any connection to a family named Hardin."

"That was my mother's maiden name," she said slowly. "But I'm not aware of any other connection to the Hardin family, living or dead."

He nodded. "It is a distant connection, to be sure, but I feel certain you are a legatee—a beneficiary of a legacy. Do you, by chance, have any documentation showing your mother's Hardin connection?"

"Yes, I have a Certificate of Live Birth that shows my mother's maiden name," Jeanne answered. "But what exactly are you talking about, Mr. Deshler? Who is this deceased person, and what, exactly, is the legacy?"

Regretfully, he answered, "I apologize, Mrs. Bettencourt, but that is another complication. There is another legatee with rights to the property, and I am in the very odd position of having to notify you both that you are beneficiaries, but until I can speak to you together I'm not free to discuss specifics. The other beneficiary has agreed to bring me his documentation and meet with us tomorrow at ten o'clock, at my office. Would it be possible for you to come, and bring your birth certificate?"

Jeanne said with frustration, "Mr. Deshler, that places a hardship on me. I can't just ask to take off work, it's definitely frowned upon, and I need this job."

He smiled, a tidy, close expression. "I'm afraid I have already taken a liberty concerning you, Mrs. Bettencourt. You see, my firm represents Gayoso House, and I'm acquainted with the owner, Mr. Topp, and the managing executives of the hotel. Before I came to speak with you I spoke to your general manager, Mr. Spivey, and explained that you might need to take the day off tomorrow to meet with me on a matter of importance. He was very understanding and said you may take whatever time you need to attend to it. So, here is my card. May I count on seeing you tomorrow at ten?"

"Thank you, Mr. Deshler," Jeanne said gratefully. "I will be there."

BUCK BUCKNER STUCK OUT his hand. Clint took it, and winced when Buckner shook it firmly. "I can't believe it, but you did it, Hardin. I can't believe
how
you did it, either. Where'll you be for us to settle up?" He was shouting to be heard over the blaring din in the warehouse.

Clint said something, but Buckner couldn't hear him, both because of the noise and because now Clint had buried his head under a thick, wet, dirty towel. He was rubbing his head, hard, and wide bloodstains appeared under his six busted knuckles.

"What?" Buckner yelled.

Beside Clint, Vince Norville stood on tiptoe to holler into Buckner's ear, "We'll be at Cozen's Tonsorial Parlor!"

"He's going to get a haircut?" Buck said blankly.

"Naw, a bath," Vince said.

"He's not going to celebrate his win? Clint the Flint Fist downed Mike the Hammer in four rounds?"

"To him a bath is a celebration," Vince said with disgust. "Our buddy Duffy will join you for the tallying-up, Buck." He pointed to the short scowling Duffy Byrne who waited behind Clint, holding his water bottle.

Buckner grinned a shark's smile. "You think I'm going to cheat you, Hardin?"

Clint had surfaced from under the towel. "'Course not, Buck. I mean I don't, and Vinnie doesn't, but I don't know about Duffy. You take exception to him helping you out with counting the money, you'll have to take it up with him."

"I see," Buck said, nodding knowingly. "Knife man, huh?"

"That's right," Vince said expansively. "And I'm the Gun Man, and Clint's the Flint Fist Man. Hey—"

Clint was making his way through the loud, raucous, shouting, shoving, rowdy bunch of men that surrounded him. "Ya did it, Flint! Made me my Satiddy night whiskey money! Busted him up good, Flint! When's the next fight? Hey, Flint, Mike looks like he done got
hit
wid a Hammer!" they catcalled, and other, coarser things.

Clint grinned crookedly at all of them, raising his bloody fists up high, until he made it out the door. His hair was wet, his bare chest ran with perspiration, his hands were covered in blood, his face had blood and sweat on it. The cold air bit him all over, and he gulped in a great icy breath, but it refreshed him. Behind him Vince pushed through several men that were following Clint, cursing, and when he reached him he threw Clint's wool topcoat over his shoulders. "So. You're just going to walk around, naked and barefooted, in the snow. Real smart, Flint-brain."

"You know, it stinks in there, Vinnie, and I'm thinking that a lot of that stench is coming from me. Need some fresh air." He took his heavy brogans out of Vince's hands, threw them down, and stepped into them. "Cozen's is only a couple of blocks. C'mon, it's freezing out here, whatsa matter with you?"

In half an hour Clint was sitting in an enormous tub made of barrel staves. His long legs were fully stretched out, the steaming water came up to his neck, and he lay motionless, his head back, his eyes closed, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. "Aw, man, what I wouldn't give to have a bath like this every day," he murmured.

Sitting on a whiskey barrel, and sipping some of that very whiskey from a tin cup, Vince regarded him with a critical eye. "Guess you can afford it now, Clint the Flint. You made a big bunch of dollars tonight, buddy."

"Did, didn't I?" Clint said with satisfaction.

"Yeah. By the way, I liked your plan. Good plan, that. It was cold, but yeah, good plan."

Clint opened his eyes—that is, he opened one eye, for the other was swollen shut. He reached up to tenderly feel it, and his rapidly swelling mouth. "Aw, man, how'd that happen? Anyway, what do you mean, cold? I fought fair, straight jabs, no gouging."

"I know. It's just that you were kinda deliberate about it, like you were dissecting a dead frog or something. I've never seen you fight like that," Vince said soberly.

Clint's plan had been simple. He allowed Mike to get close to him, which meant that Clint had to take a lot of gut and kidney punches. But this time, instead of hitting his opponent with professional right crosses and left uppercuts, Clint hit him again and again in the eyes. He had simply outlasted Mike. Clint took a beating in the belly and sides, but Mike's eyes had swollen up until he couldn't see. In the last round he had doggedly groped his way "up to scratch," the long dug-up streak in the dirt that the fighters had to step up to before beginning to fight, but Mike couldn't see anything at all by that time and couldn't block any punch. Clint had slowly and deliberately hit him twice in the solar plexus to knock the breath out of him, and then had hit him solidly in the chest to knock him down. Mike couldn't recover his breath to get up within the allotted thirty seconds, and Clint had won.

Now he told Vince quietly, "No, and I don't ever want to fight like that again. It wasn't any fun at all. It might have been fair, but it was no sport."

Vince nodded with understanding. "Yeah, I get it, Clint. Now you don't have to fight Mike again, anyway. He's the only one that ever beat you. So, who's next?"

Clint answered lazily, "Vinnie, my friend, there's a possibility that I might be a man of means, and won't have to fight any more. A lawyer fellow came to see me today. It seems like I've got an inheritance coming."

"Huh? From who? What is it? Money? A lot of money?"

"I don't know, don't know, don't know. I won't find out until ten o'clock tomorrow. But tonight," he said, sitting up and contemplating his dead cigar, "I got money to spend. Think I'll take a light, if you please, and see if old Cozens has another fancy shot glass like that one you have there. And you have yourself a cigar and another drink on me."

"I'll do that," Vince said, striking a match to light Clint's cigar. "You know, Her Ladyship's not going to be happy that her favorite's face is all beat up. You might better hit one of those ladies' shops that sell cosmetics, see if you can get prettied up before Madam Maxfield sees you."

Clint smiled. "Good idea, Vinnie. I'll think about that."

EVEN THOUGH JEANNE WAS horribly nervous, she grew amused at herself as she entered the offices of Deshler, Wayne & Beebe as the last stroke of ten sounded on the church bell.
I'm not late, Mrs. Wiedemann,
she thought crazily. The imposing structure was a large two-story building with a pillared front porch and a stalwart-looking front door of oak, respectably blackened with age. Inside was a large foyer leading to a grand marble staircase. Directly on one side was a mirrored hat stand, and Jeanne threw off her hood and unwound her new crimson headwrap, noting that her cheeks were colored a high rose, and not just from the cold. A young somber man with spectacles came out of a doorway on her left and said, "Mrs. Bettencourt?"

"Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Deshler," she said.

"Of course. Please come this way." He led her into a room that looked like a parlor, with a sofa and spidery side chairs and a generous tea table, and a desk at the back of the room, and beckoned her to a door with frosted glass on the far wall. Opening it, he said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, Mr. Deshler." He held the door open for Jeanne, and she went into a large room with books lining the walls, heavy red velvet draperies framing the windows, and masculine leather armchairs grouped around a sizzling fire.

Deshler rose from behind his desk and came around to hold a chair for Jeanne. "Good morning, Mrs. Bettencourt. Please, sit down. You're right on time." He returned to his seat.

They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, about the weather and the state of the streets. Then Jeanne said, "I brought my birth certificate, Mr. Deshler. Would you like to see it now?"

"Yes, I would." She took it out of the pocket of her mantle and handed it to him. He gave it a cursory glance and handed it back to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Bettencourt, this is all the proof I need to substantiate your claim. I found you from the census records, you see, by tracing your mother, so I was already certain that I had the right person. Or rather, persons, for that's the way I traced the other claimant, too."

"I believe you said he is coming here this morning?" Jeanne said politely.

"Yes, he is. It seems he is late, which I don't find too surprising under the circumstances."