“Well, it’s good that you have each other,” Mrs. Hayes said. She frowned as she studied Tess. “Odd that she hasn’t married, and her such a pretty girl.”
“Yes,” he said.
She glanced at him. “No beau at all?”
“No,” he replied, hating the thought of Tess with another man. He’d often worried about what he’d do if she ever decided to marry anyone else. The situation hadn’t arisen, though, thank God. “She’s never mentioned a special man.”
“Would she, to her own cousin?” Mrs. Hayes asked. “But, then, perhaps not. It is a shame, though.”
Matt changed the subject adroitly by asking what Mrs. Hayes thought of President Roosevelt. She was good for an hour on that topic, as it happened, and Matt was able to avoid any more discussion of Tess’s love life.
THE NEXT MORNING, after only a few hours of sleep, Matt shaved and dressed for work.
He went in to see Tess, who was sleeping and still looked feverish. “I have to go to my office,” Matt said reluctantly. “Take good care of her. She’s a fighter, but it won’t hurt to remind her that she is.”
“I’ll do that.” Mrs. Hayes frowned. “That arm’s bleeding,” she pointed out.
Matt felt his stomach do an uneasy flip. “I’ll call at Dr. Barrows’s office on my way,” Matt said with a grim sigh. “She’s probably tossed and turned enough to tear the stitches.”
“T’ain’t but three stitches,” Mrs. Hayes said curtly. “I had to retie the bandage early this morning. That’s why it’s opened again.”
“What?” Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Good Lord, the cut’s almost four inches long! It needed more than three stitches! I’ll speak to him about that, as well,” he said. He nodded, took one last look at Tess, and went out the door. His stride was enough to make two gentlemen on the street step right back to give him room.
DR. BARROWS WAS ON HIS way out when Matt caught up with him at the office he maintained at the side of his elegant residence.
“Tess is restless and has torn the wound open,” he told the physician curtly. “And Mrs. Hayes says that there were only three stitches to keep it from reopening.”
Dr. Barrows fidgeted, his black bag right in his hand. “Yes, yes, I know, I had barely enough sutures for that many stitches. I was sleepy, and it was very late… I have plenty of sutures this morning, though, and I’ll attend to it. Is she feverish?”
“Very.” Matt’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll take it personally if she doesn’t improve,” he added, and with an almost imperceptible movement of his arm, his jacket drew back from the bright paisley vest to disclose a leather belt that held a long, broad knife with a carved bone handle.
The doctor was used to threats, and he didn’t take them seriously. But this man wasn’t like those he routinely dealt with. And he hadn’t seen a knife like that since a boyhood trip out to the Great Plains. One of the cavalry scouts, a half-breed, had carried something similar. It was a great wide gleaming blade of metal with which, a sergeant told him, that very scout had lifted a scalp right in front of his eyes.
His hand tightened on his bag. “Of course you will, Mr. Davis,” he said curtly. “But your cousin is going to improve. I’ll take excellent care of her!”
“I know you will,” Matt replied, and the very words carried a soft, dangerous threat that was only emphasized by the faint smile on his thin lips.
Dr. Barrows watched the tall man walk away, his eyes narrowed on that odd gait. Davis didn’t walk like a city man. Like many other Chicagoans, he wondered where the mysterious Mr. Davis came from. But it wasn’t a question he was keen to ask the man. No, not at all keen.
He pulled his pocket watch out by its long gold chain and flipped the case open with a practiced movement. He was already late starting his calls, but he was going to see Miss Meredith first thing. He should have gone home for the sutures Saturday night. He certainly would properly stitch that wound today!
Chapter Four
Sitting behind his huge oak desk in a swivel chair, Matt whirled toward the fair, younger man who had just entered at his call.
“Stanley, I want to find somebody,” he said curtly. “A well-dressed man with a cane who was at the women’s movement torchlight parade Saturday night. He’d probably be with the workers’ party people who muscled in on the women.”
“Yes, sir,” Stanley Lang said eagerly. Stanley was only twenty-two, a tall and gangly man who reacted with enthusiasm to any sort of job he was given. He was also the youngest of Matt’s six agents. “Do we have any identification for this man?”
“None,” was the deep reply. “He stabbed my cousin. I want his name.”
Stanley’s eyes opened wide. He’d worked for Matt Davis for two years, and he’d heard from the other agents that their boss never spoke of family. This was news indeed.
“Was he badly hurt?” Stanley asked.
“She,” Matt corrected. “She was stabbed in the arm. But I think the man meant to do her worse harm. I must know who he is.”
“Well, I’ll certainly do my best, sir,” Stanley returned. “And I hope your cousin will be all right.”
“So do I,” Matt murmured. He glanced up. “Get going, man.”
“Yes, sir, and thank you for the opportunity—”
“Out, Stanley.”
“Yes, sir, but I really do appreciate—”
“Out!”
Stanley withdrew at once with a wide grin and closed the door to discourage any flying objects that might come from that quarter. Matt Davis was known to throw things when he was in one of his black moods. Usually it was something soft. But one never knew.
MATT BROODED FOR HALF the day while he pursued his own pending cases, sending his agents out on various routine tasks. Most of his cases involved criminal activities of some sort. But one man had required an agent to follow a young woman—his wife, presumably—whom he suspected of infidelity. The Pinkerton Detective Agency, of which Matt had been an agent until two years before, had refused to accept cases that involved public or private morals. However, Matt had taken what business he could get when he started his own agency. He’d been amazed at how rapidly his clientele grew, and how wealthy he’d become in a relatively short time. Although he was able to be selective now, he also accepted cases on an individual basis, and his acceptance depended on his assessment of the client.
A rich widower wanted his daughter’s shady new boyfriend checked out because he suspected that the man was a gigolo. The girl was very young and innocent, and the man had a shady reputation. Matt had accepted the case because he felt sorry for the girl.
There were other assorted jobs on the books, none of the current ones very interesting. He leaned back in his swivel chair and remembered the exciting times he and the other Pinkertons had had chasing down yeggs, safecracking burglars who robbed banks across the country. They moved around like tramps, hiding by day and working at night. They used nitroglycerin to get into the safes and generally led the agency on a merry chase. One gang of yeggs was still operating and had achieved legendary status. Almost every Pinkerton man had some anecdote about the yeggs. One of the more ironic was that of a poor law enforcement officer whom a gang of safecrackers had taken with them at gunpoint when they went to blow up a safe at a post office somewhere out west. They’d tied him up in a canvas mailbag and stamped him for travel, leaving him otherwise unharmed.
Matt didn’t do much work on robberies anymore. He seemed to spend more and more