LaBarge … the man might actually be a government agent. No, he was thinking like a Russian again. The Americans were naive, something only time would cure, time and some great hurt. As yet they were unaccustomed to intrigue on the great scale. All but that man Franklin; too bad he was dead. The old Quaker had been a master in the field, perhaps the equal of Metternich. But in general American diplomatic success had so far been largely due to their bluntness of manner and the obviousness of their motives. It was a method calculated to cause the more subtle Europeans to suspect them of hidden objectives. It would be wise to talk to that young man again, even at the risk—he glanced at Helena—but it was no risk. The cynics said a man was a fool to trust a woman. Perhaps. Yet he trusted her.
“My husband?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful of the Baron. I have a feeling he knows why you are here, and that he has been sent here for the express purpose of defeating you.” “You could be right.” He pushed his empty cup away. “Helena, I wish you would arrange for me to talk to that young man … in private.” She was thoughtful. “Alexander, does it strike you at all that it might be significant that he owns wheat? The only wheat available?” He glanced at her curiously. “What do you mean?” “I am foolish, of course. But in a place where all seem to think of seeking gold or raising cattle it is surprising to find a man growing wheat on such a scale. And such a man. Suppose he wished to make a trip to Alaska? He must know that we buy supplies both here and in Hawaii, and what better way to come to Alaska unsuspected?”
Rotcheff rubbed his chin. Helena was thinking in European terms herself. On the other hand, in the case of LaBarge it might be the right way. “Are you merely surmising?” he suggested. “Or have you something on which to base this feeling?” “Mrs. Herndon told me her husband tried to buy wheat from Mr. LaBarge, and he would not sell. And the offered price was good.” “I see … of course, as he himself said, he is in the fur trade.” “To let his wheat be wasted? No, I think he had other reasons. He might be saving his wheat for a wedge.”
It was easy to understand a man who wanted something. Those were the obvious ones with whom it was simplest to deal. It was the idealists who worried him. He said as much.
“What of the idealists who pursue profits along with their ideals?” “They are worst of all,” Rotcheff said. “The worst to deal with, I mean. They drive a hard bargain.”
LaBarge ought be just such a man, but the only fact they possessed was that he was a fur trader, and without doubt there was fur in Russian America. That was motivation enough.
“Mrs. Herndon was telling me that Jean LaBarge has an obsession: he asks qustions about Alaska.”
“She told you that?”
“It’s common knowledge. And there is something else. Mr. LaBarge has a very old friend with whom he corresponds, a former senator named Robert J. Walker.” The Count was pleased—pleased to have the information, pleased with his wife for discovering it, and pleased at finding here in America what seemed to be some genuine European duplicity. This innocent young man, who looked like a professional duelist and who bought furs, this young man was an associate of one of America’s ablest politicians.
“You know the name?”
“Robert Walker,” Rotcheff said quietly, “is one of the least appreciated of American statesmen, but one of the most able and tireless.” “Mrs. Herndon said he was no longer in office.” “My dear”—Rotcheff filled his coffee cup again—“such a man is never out of office. Once tarred with that brush they are never free of it. I’ve no doubt that politics is Mr. Walker’s lifeblood, and his country is his life.” He chuckled. “It pleases me that our young friend is not so naive as one might suspect.”
“It may be a coincidence.”
“He has wheat which he will not sell to a friend, but will sell to Alaska. He has a political friend to whom he writes. He asks questions about Alaska, and he has a friend who would gladly see the Yankee flag flying over the whole continent. I think, Helena, this young man may help us. He may help us very much indeed.”
9
Jackson and Kearney Streets met at an intersection known locally as Murderers’ Corner. The Opera Comique faced Denny O’Brien’s Saloon across this corner and there was but little to choose between them. The saloon was the hangout for Sydney Town hoodlums and later for those toughs known as the Barbary Coast Rangers. It was burned and rebuilt with few added features and no change in clientele. In the cellar beneath the saloon were other forms of entertainment than the usual drinking and gambling. In a pit situated in its center dogs were fought against each other or a variety of other animals. A man who had a job to be done by tough men could be sure of finding them at O’Brien’s. On the Tuesday following the meeting between LaBarge and Zinnovy, three men sat at an inconspicuous table in O’Brien’s. Charley Duane, Royle Weber and the Baron Zinnovy had scarcely seated themselves when O’Brien himself appeared. Weber and Duane he knew very well, especially Duane who was a fixer, a politician, and a man with a hand in a number of illegal pies. These two were enough of a magnet; but the elegantly cut clothing of the Baron smelled of money, an odor calculated to draw immediate attention from Denny O’Brien. He went to the table rubbing his fat hands on his vest front. “Somethin’ for you, gents?” “A bottle of Madeira,” Zinnovy said. He measured O’Brien with his cold eyes. O’Brien smiled. “Yes, sir! We have just what you want. We cater to all tastes an’ kinds, don’t we, Mr. Duane?”
He brought the wine and the glasses himself and lingered over the decanting, for Denny O’Brien was a knowing man and these three had not come here without a reason. O’Brien had had his dealings with Duane and Weber. He was, after all, known to them both as a man who could be counted on to deliver five hundred votes at election time, provided several of the boys repeated their voting. He could also be counted upon to deliver almost anything else. O’Brien leaned his fat hands on the table. “Girls, maybe? Got any kind you want.
You just name it, and—“
“No,” Duane came to the point. “We want to talk to Woolley Kearney.” O’Brien did some fast thinking. Kearney was a former Australian convict who made his boast that he could whip any man alive in a brawl. He had killed a fellow prisoner, then killed a guard in escaping, and in San Francisco he had killed at least one man publicly, with his fists. If it was Kearney they wanted it was a beating somebody was to get.
Kearney would hog all the money and O’Brien would never see a red cent of it.
“Kearney?” he said doubtfully. “The man’s not been seen around, last few days.” He lowered his voice. “Who be the gent you want called upon? I know just the lads for it.”
Weber shifted in his seat. He was sweating a little. Duane glanced at Zinnovy and the Baron shrugged. “It will be Jean LaBarge.” Zinnovy was surprised at O’Brien’s sudden change of expression. The saloonkeeper drew back a little and touched a tongue to his lips. “LaBarge, is it? You’d want Wool Kearney, all right. Or maybe three of my boys.” “Three?” Zinnovy lifted an eyebrow.
“He’s a skookum man, that LaBarge. Most of those about town will have no part of him, but I know three lads who’ll do just the job for you, and no kickback.” Zinnovy’s eyes were chilled. “If there is a kickback, as you phrase it,” he said quietly, “I’ll have you shot.”
Startled, O’Brien looked at Zinnovy again. The man was not joking. “Is it a beating you’ll be wanting?” he asked.
“I want him out of business for a while.” Zinnovy did his own talking now. “A beating, but a broken arm or leg included. Also, I want the warehouse that holds his wheat burned to the ground.”
O’Brien hesitated. “It will cost you one thousand dollars,” he said at last. Baron Zinnovy looked up, his gray eyes showing no interest. “You will be paid five hundred. If LaBarge gets a very severe beating, five hundred more. If the warehouse is destroyed, another five hundred.”
O’Brien took a long breath. “It’ll be done tomorrow night.” Zinnovy pushed a small sack across the table. It tinkled slightly as O’Brien’s fat hand closed over it. “See to it,” Zinnovy ordered. Duane lingered as they started for the door, and whispered, “Don’t slip up. He isn’t playing games.”