“You hired the murder of Will Reilly.”
He started to protest, but she brushed him aside impatiently. “I suppose you know that Hardesty and Pike are dead?”
He had not known. He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. Hardesty and Pike dead! “How—?”
“They were killed in gun battles by Reilly’s nephew. Do you remember him?”
“But he was only a boy!”
“They grow up very fast out west, they tell me,” she said grimly. “He knows about you, doesn’t he?”
The boy had been in the room when Will Reilly had forced him to write those letters. Simpson shifted uncomfortably. That was far away in the West. It was true he sometimes worried about Sonnenberg, but—
“That boy was back east a few weeks ago,” Myra said, “and he has been asking questions.”
Avery Simpson felt as if he was going to be sick. He tried to sit up straighter, his jowls quivering. Back east? Then he was not safe, not even here.
“Who paid for Reilly’s murder?” The question was shot at him, suddenly, without warning.
“It was Prince—” He stopped. “I can’t tell you that.”
Myra Fossett had dealt with men too long and on too intimate terms not to know about such men as Avery Simpson. “Simpson,” she said coldly, “and even as I say it I know it is not your true name”—she saw him cringe a little at that—”I did not ask you here to make conversation. You tell me what you know, and no damned nonsense. If you don’t,” she smiled at him, “I will tell Henry Sonnenberg where to find you.”
He stared at her. Who was she? How could she know about him?
After a moment she said, “Now tell me. And tell me all about it.”
Avery Simpson dug into his pocket for a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not if it will help your memory,” she said; “but get on with it. I have better things to do than sit here talking to you.”
Prince Pavel had not told anyone his reasons for wanting Will Reilly killed. He had told neither the go-between who put him in touch with Simpson, nor had he told Simpson; but Avery Simpson, drinking in a pub one night, had mentioned the scars on the face of Prince Pavel, and was told the story of the man he had tried to horsewhip.
After Simpson had gone, Myra Fossett found herself smiling. The idea, she said to herself, of anybody trying to horsewhip Will Reilly!
She was grimly amused, but her thoughts began to toy with the information she had acquired, and what it might do for her.
Her business was doing well, but there were many doors which were still closed to her, doors that could be opened by such a name as Prince Pavel … or by any other prince, she told herself cynically.
He had wanted to make a rich marriage for Princess Louise. Had he succeeded? What, exactly, was his financial situation at the moment? He might be someone she could use.
He was obviously a good hater, and she liked that, but he was also a fool, for no man in his right mind could look into those cool green eyes of Will Reilly’s and still fancy they could have him whipped. Killed, perhaps, but not whipped. She had known other men of his kind, men you had to shoot to stop, for their pride and their courage was such that they could not be broken.
She considered the several plans that had been lying in the dark and secret drawers of her mind, plans that awaited the right knowledge of the right people, or their assistance, but all of those people lay beyond walls she had not been able to breach. But with a captive prince …
Her thoughts returned to her son. It was with a feeling of irritation that she realized she had thought of him thus. He was a stranger, by accident her son, with whom she had nothing in common. And at this juncture he was an outright danger to her, and to all she had planned and accomplished.
Avery Simpson had provided her with a handle for the manipulation of a prince, or the possibility of it. The first thing was to ascertain the financial standing of Prince Pavel, and of the Princess Louise, if she was still around. If the prince was gambling, as Simpson had implied, he would probably need money.
She glanced at her watch. She had been invited to dinner at the Harcort’s, and there was just time to make it. At such times she missed Van.
Though she had no use for men, yet there were times when a woman needed an escort, and Van had always been there; and even when drinking his manners had been perfect. She could have used him now.
At the Harcort’s there would be a number of fashionable people, including men with far-reaching business connections. It was at such parties that she had made most of the contacts she had developed and used. Men who were drinking often explained things to a beautiful woman who was a good listener, telling her of stock deals and financial arrangements in which their wives were rarely interested. It was true that some of them had grown cautious after their casual boasting had cost them money. For Myra not only knew how to get information, she knew how to use it.
She rarely worried about meeting anyone who might have known her in the past. The men she had entertained in the mining and cattle towns rarely came east; and she had changed the color of her hair, wore higher heels, and presented a very different appearance. She had never returned to the West, and had no desire to do so. But there remained the chance of encountering some former client, so she restricted her social activities to private parties, rarely going to large hotels or restaurants, or to watering places.
She called for one of her runners and before she left for dinner she had started the movement of events that would have Henry Sonnenberg checking the arrival of a certain box, and would bring her information as to the financial status of Prince Pavel Pavelovitch.
In a saloon, not more than a dozen blocks away, Avery Simpson stood at the bar and nursed a drink. He needed that drink and those that would follow, for Myra Fossett had scared the daylights out of him.
She knew too much for comfort, but what puzzled him was her familiarity with the identities of Will Reilly, Henry Sonnenberg, and some others. All of which gave rise to the question: Who was Myra Fossett?
TWENTY-ONE
A few weeks later Prince Pavel was asking himself the same question. He had received through his bank a note written in a small but beautiful hand a suggestion that if he were in a position to come to America on a brief visit it might prove financially interesting to him.
He put the note aside, a bit curious as to this Myra Fossett who had written it. When he went to dinner he noticed an old friend across the room, a man known for his international business affairs, and for his unusual success. It was Robert Fleury. Prince Pavel went over to his table.
“Robert,” he said, “do you by any chance know anything of an American woman named Fossett?”
Fleury turned sharply. “Myra Fossett? How do you know anything about her?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
Fleury shrugged. “It is simply that she is a business woman … beautiful, but very shrewd, also.”
“A woman? In business?”
Fleury shrugged again. “There are more than you think, but none of them like Madame Fossett.”
“She is wealthy?”
“Rolling in it.” Fleury studied his friend. “But what do you know of her?”
Pavel’s explanation solved nothing. “I do not know what she has in mind,” Fleury said, “but be assured there is money in it. She thinks of nothing but money, that one. Be careful, my friend. When she makes any such proposal you can be sure it is for her benefit alone—that much I know of her. She is not only shrewd, she is utterly ruthless, and without a scruple.”
Pavel was not impressed. He had no scruples himself; and a woman, a beautiful woman, and very wealthy … “I have no idea what she has in mind,” he said.
Robert Fleury, whose interests in America were many, was puzzled, because so far as he was aware Madame Fossett had shown no interest in any man that was not casual, nor did she seem very active in a social way. She was not a partygiver, and seemed to ignore most of the social highlights of the season.
“Just be warned,” he said again, “but you can be sure whatever it is has money in it.”
Prince Pavel, ten years before, had come into a good-sized inheritance which had since dwindled because of his enthusiasm for gambling. It was growing increasingly difficult to borrow, and although he had a small reserve he had kept untouched, it was too small for comfort.