The Assassin

“It’s a knockdown target. A shooting gallery duck.”

Wally nodded. “That bracket attaches to the target rail. The duck hinges down when a bullet hits it.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“Thirty feet from the first tank that blew.”

“What do you think?”

“The racket you heard right before the explosion could have included a rifle shot, a bullet smashing into this duck, and a blasting cap.”

“So while I was chasing the sniper on the horse, another marksman detonated the explosive that ignited the fire.”

“That’s my read. He shot the duck, which jarred a blasting cap.”

“Or,” said Bell, “the man I chased led me on a wild-goose chase while the real assassin stayed put to set the fire.”

“High marks for a sense of humor,” said Wally Kisley. “Using a shooting gallery duck for a target.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Isaac Bell. “But I will give them high marks for the nerve it took to set up the duck, the cap, and the dynamite right under everyone’s noses. I wonder why nobody noticed.”

“Oil fever. Too busy getting rich.”

5

Midnight was warmed by a slight breeze as a crescent moon inched toward the west. The assassin sat on a large barrel that had been cut into a chair in front of the switching office of the railroad freight yard. The interior was dark and empty since no trains were due to leave or arrive until late the next morning.

The assassin lit a Ramón Allones Havana cigar and retrieved from a coat pocket a leather pouch that contained a gold medal, a fifty-dollar bill, and a letter on heavy stock. The touch of wind dissipated an attempt at blowing a self-satisfied smoke ring.

The medal was as heavy as a double eagle gold piece. And the center was fashioned like a target, with concentric rings and a single dot in the precise center of the bull’s-eye. It hung from a red ribbon that was attached to a gold bar pin engraved “Rifle Sharpshooter.”

The fifty-dollar treasury note would have been just another bill of paper money except when you turned it over you saw that the president had signed the back—as if, the assassin often thought, the busy president had suddenly shouted, “Wait! Bring that back. I’ll sign it for that fine young soldier.”

It had to be Roosevelt’s signature because it matched his signature on the commendation letter that the president had typed, as he was known to do with personal letters, on White House letterhead. The assassin read it by the light of a globe above the switching office door for perhaps the hundredth time:

THE WHITE HOUSE

Washington

October 1, 1902

I have just been informed that you have won the President’s Match for the military championship of the United States of America. I wish to congratulate you in person . . .

The assassin skipped some folderol about honoring the regiment and the value of volunteer soldiers—as if their eyes had sighted the targets and their fingers caressed the trigger. Fat chance. Then came the best part.

I congratulate you and your possession of the qualities of perseverance and determination—

A sound of footsteps on gravel interrupted all thought. Quickly, everything went back into the leather pouch and was returned to the coat pocket.

“Why here?” Bill Matters grunted. “We could have met in the comfort of my private car.”

“Too ostentatious,” said the assassin. “I have always preferred a life of simplicity.” Before Matters could reply, the assassin motioned to another barrel chair with the cigar. “I admit they’d be more comfortable with seat cushions.”

Even in the dark Matters showed his anger. “Why in blazes—why in the face of all good sense—did you shoot Hopewell when the detective was with him?”

The assassin made no apology and offered no regret but retorted loftily, “To paraphrase the corrupt Tammany Haller Senator Plunkitt, I saw my shot and I took it.”

Bill Matters felt his heart pounding with rage. “All my kowtowing to those sanctimonious sons of bitches and you blithely undermine my whole scheme.”

“I got away clean. The detective never came close to me.”

“You brought a squad of Van Dorns to the state.”

“We’re done in this state.”

“We’re done when I say we’re done.”

Matters was deeply troubled. His killer, who was vital to his plan, operated in a world and a frame of mind beyond his control, much less his understanding: efficient as a well-oiled machine, with gun in hand, but possessed off the killing field by a reckless faith that nothing could ever go wrong, that fortune would never turn nor consequences catch up.

“I’m surprised by your disappointment.” There was a pause to exhale a cloud of cigar smoke. “I naturally thought you would celebrate your old friend’s departure.”

“Van Dorn detectives have a saying: ‘We never give up!’”

To Matters’ disgust, this drew another, even colder response. “Never? I have a saying, too: ‘Never get too close to me.’ If he does, I will kill him.” The assassin flicked an ash from the cigar. “Who’s next?”

“There’s a fellow giving me trouble in Texas.”

“Who?”

“C. C. Gustafson.”

“Ah!”

The killer nodded in vigorous agreement, admiring Bill Matters’ cu

Matters said, “With a crackerjack Van Dorn private detective on the case—thanks to you—we’ve got to throw off suspicion.”

Nothing in the murderer’s expression indicated the minutest acceptance of blame. In fact, it looked as if the murder of Spike Hopewell under the nose of a Van Dorn had been completely forgotten while Matters’ inclusive “we” had kindled delight.

“May I offer you a fine cigar?”

Matters simply shook his head no.

“Brilliant! Public outrage expects the worst of Standard Oil. They’ll blame Gustafson’s killing on the bogeyman everyone loves to hate.”

“Can you do it?”

“Can I do it?” The assassin accepted the assignment with a dramatic flourish: “You may consider Mr. C. C. Gustafson’s presses stopped.”

Matters did not doubt they’d be stopped. A bullet through the head would take care of that. But what bothered him the most was how near was his private assassin to flying out of control.

6

Isaac Bell went looking for the coroner in Independence, the Montgomery County seat, not far from the Indian Territory border. The courthouse clerk directed him to the coroner’s undertaking parlor. A plumber repairing the refrigerating plant told Bell to try the jailhouse. Dr. McGrade was visiting the jailer in his apartment above the cells. They were drinking whiskey in tea cups and invited Bell to join them.

Like most Kansans Bell had met, Dr. McGrade was fully aware of the Corporations Commission investigation and hugely in favor of any action that reined in Standard Oil. Bell explained his co

“Glad to help you, Detective, but I’m not sure how. Didn’t the Bourbon County coroner conduct the autopsy on Mr. Hopewell?”

“I’ve already spoken with him. I’m curious about the death of Albert Hill.”

“The refinery fellow,” Dr. McGrade told the jailer, “who drowned in the still.”