The Quest of Brady Kenton / Kenton's Challenge Read online

  He finger-combed his hair and chuckled. If he got caught, it wouldn’t be tonight. He’d had a few too many and had fallen asleep right at his desk. The place had emptied out around him.

  Lucky he didn’t have a window in his door.

  Darian stumbled back to his chair, not feeling very steady yet. His heavy heels clunked loudly on the wooden floor. But he didn’t worry. Few people in this place worked late, and this was traditionally the night off for Joe Keen, the night watchman. So he could afford to be a little careless.

  He sat back down, groaning, wishing his house weren’t so far away from the office. He was drunk and would have to walk home, trying to avoid being seen by a policeman. His drinking was a great secret, and he lived in dread of ever having it revealed. He could imagine the humiliation of being arrested for public drunkenness, having people learn about it …

  He shook his head, determined to clear it before he left the building. Maybe a cigar would help.

  Darian dug through his ashtray, looking for a butt with some smoking distance left on it. Nothing. He opened a box on his desk and pulled out a fresh one. He bit off the end, clumsily, and spat it onto the floor. His hands were shaking, fingers numb. He dropped the cigar twice, then managed to get it into his mouth, and searched for his matches. It took three tries to light the cigar.

  Darian sat there puffing, blowing smoke into the dark, and wishing he hadn’t drunk so much.

  He felt sick all at once. Maybe something was wrong with him besides the excess of whiskey.

  He laid his head on the desk, cigar still in his mouth. A moment later he lifted his head, frowning.

  What had he just heard? Somebody on the floor below?

  It had been just a faint bump below. But he had the most distinct feeling that it had been made by a human being, not one of the occasional big rats to which this building was home.

  He sat frowning, puffing, listening.

  CHAPTER 19

  GUNNISON looked over at Kenton, whom he could barely see now that the candle was out.

  “There’s no question there’s somebody up there … but I don’t think he’s coming down.”

  Kenton whispered back, “I suspect it’s somebody working late. Which means we can probably finish our work and get out of here without drawing attention. I knew we were wise not to panic and run like you were ready to do! You’d probably have gotten us caught, Alex.”

  “Kenton, you insufferable, arrogant, reckless fool! Have you no mind at all? We should get out of here now!”

  “Not until I at least find out who wrote that novel.”

  “Kenton, we’re inside a building illegally. We’re rifling through an editor’s office. If we get caught, you can imagine the consequences.”

  “We’ll be quiet about it. I’ll look … you stand by the door and listen. If anyone starts descending the stairs, we’ll be out the door.”

  “Kenton, this is insane!”

  “We’ll not have another chance like this. It’ll take only a few minutes.”

  Gunnison knew he should walk out and leave Kenton to his own troubles.

  He also knew he wouldn’t. As always, he’d follow Kenton’s lead, take any number of risks.

  Obediently, he stood by the door, listening to the empty hall, waiting for the sound of a footfall on the stairwell.

  Kenton began digging through papers again, searching, shuffling, making far too much noise to suit Gunnison.

  * * *

  Above, William Darian opened his eyes again, not having realized he’d even closed them. After his first awakening, he’d drifted off into a sort of semi-sleep state, but something had just awakened him once more. More noise, he thought, from the floor below.

  Half-unconsciously, he picked up his smoldering cigar and puffed it back to life again, meanwhile listening hard. Oh, yes, no question about it. Somebody was downstairs, moving about. Not noisily, really, more like someone trying to keep his motions quiet.

  Darian grew frightened, on several levels. If whoever was down there was a coworker, or, God forbid, one of his superiors, he’d have a real problem if he were caught drinking.

  If it was an intruder, looking for money, he could have trouble of a whole different sort. People got killed in situations like that.

  He tossed the cigar aside and swept the bottle and glass into his drawer, too quickly. It made a loud crashing sound.

  Darian winced. That sound was so loud it had surely been audible all through the building.

  Darian got up and headed for the door, panicked. He would get down the stairs and out as quickly as he could.

  He tripped over his own chair, falling hard, striking his head on the corner of a shelf. He landed noisily, blacking out at once.

  Across the room, the cigar he’d carelessly tossed away lay smoldering on the floor, inches away from a garbage pail overflowing with paper. Its flaring tip was beginning to dim already, but a breeze struck the drafty window and entered the room, blowing across Darian’s unconscious form and also against the cigar, causing it to flare up again.

  A scrap of paper, stirred by the same breeze, fell from the garbage pail and drifted directly toward the cigar burning on the floor.

  * * *

  “Kenton, let’s go!”

  Gunnison’s order was unnecessary. Kenton had heard the crash upstairs and was suddenly ready to abandon this place.

  Gunnison had slipped into the hall. Kenton was fighting panic, more concerned about this turn of events than his pride would allow him to reveal. If they were caught here it would probably result in arrest, and being the celebrity he was, arrest would bring publicity. There would be no chance of the Illustrated American lifting his suspension … probably he would be fired. Public scandal, public disgrace …

  Public ridicule, too, if it was ever learned that the reason he was breaking into a magazine publishing firm was to read a manuscript that was mysteriously supposed to lead him to his lost wife.

  Brady Kenton had to get out of this building, and fast.

  He scrambled to the door, ready to follow Gunnison out. Gunnison, meanwhile, was well down the hall and almost to the stairs. This time he wasn’t waiting for Brady Kenton.

  Kenton’s luck in leaving was about as bad as that of William Darian upstairs. His foot fell on a loose sheet of paper, which slid. He went down hard on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs so thoroughly that he simply had to lie there.

  He heard footfalls on the steps, descending.

  Kenton forced himself up, still without breath, and made it to the door. But once there, he faced a dark, looming figure with an arm extended, a heavy pistol at its end.

  Kenton froze.

  “Good move, good move,” the armed man said. “You just hold still as a statue, my friend, or I’ll shoot you dead.”

  Kenton had no intention of moving an inch. He slowly raised his hands. Cutting his eyes quickly to the left, he saw that the hall was empty. Gunnison had made it out, apparently unnoticed.

  “A night watchman, I presume,” Kenton said.

  “That’s right. Didn’t expect to see me, did you, sir! Bet you’d learned this was my usual night off. Well, surprise, surprise! Now, you just head back there and sit down in that chair.”

  “It took you long enough to detect me. Were you having a good nap?”

  In fact, this was true. The crash in Darian’s office had awakened him with a jolt. He’d known he’d heard something, but he wasn’t sure from what direction it had come. When he’d heard the sounds of Kenton and Gunnison below, he’d pegged that as the source of the noise.

  “Shut up, mister. Sit down in that chair like I told you.”

  Kenton went to Bell’s chair and plopped down, disgusted and discouraged. He would maintain his demeanor around his captor, even try to retain a little of his famous cockiness, but inside he was despairing. This was a terrible turn of events, embarrassing, and ultimately harmful. His professional life and public reputation would suffer a major blow
, no question about it.

  “What’s your name?” the watchman asked, still aiming the pistol at Kenton.

  “Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Oh, you’re the clever one, ain’t you!” The watchman backed away, and without ever letting go of his pistol, managed to strike a match and light the gaslight near the door. He turned up the light and studied Kenton. The guard was a simple-looking fellow, overfed and right now a little over-eager. Kenton guessed the man had never actually nabbed anyone intruding in this building before tonight, so this was a big event for him.

  “You look familiar … I’ve seen you before,” the guard said.

  Brady Kenton looked familiar to anyone who’d read the Illustrated American. “I don’t think we’ve met, sir. And I wish we hadn’t met tonight.”

  “You and me need to take a walk downtown.”

  Kenton was in no hurry to leave. The longer he could delay being turned over to the police, the more time he’d have to come up with some possible means of escape.

  “How did you happen to be working tonight, if that’s not your usual schedule?”

  “Why do you care about that? You’ve got worries enough of your own. What were you after, money?”

  “No. And I really don’t care to discuss any of this with you.”

  Kenton’s eye fell on a piece of paper beneath the desk, one he’d not seen during the search because the candlelight had been so much dimmer than the gaslight that now illuminated the room. He squinted, looking at the writing on the paper, then scooted his foot over and covered it, pulling it back toward himself. He deliberately knocked a pencil stub off the desk with his other hand, and reached down to retrieve it.

  “Uh-uh!” the guard said, waving the pistol he’d probably never fired. “Hands above the desk!”

  “Sorry.” Kenton pulled his head up again, the paper now wadded in his left hand. He managed to slip it into the pocket of his vest.

  “Why are we sitting here?” Kenton asked. “If you plan to take me to the police, why don’t you do so?”

  “I’m still trying to figure out who you are … I know your face is familiar.”

  “Would it make a difference if you knew me?”

  The guard stared at him, narrowed one eye, and said, “Maybe it would. I admit that I might be inclined to go easier on a friend. Human nature, you know.”

  “Yes, indeed. And what is required to make a man your friend?” Kenton reached up as if to scratch his arm, but his hand paused on the way to gently pat his coat at the place where an inner pocket held his wallet.

  The guard glanced around, as if fearing others were, impossibly, in the room to see him accept an offered bribe.

  “Don’t know. I’d have to think on it.”

  “Take your time. I’m in no hurry to meet the police.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE guard, nervous now, narrowed his eye again. “If I put my pistol away to roll a smoke, you won’t run?”

  “I don’t think it would be necessary for me to run,” Kenton said. “I think we’ve perhaps reached an understanding, you and me.”

  “Perhaps.” The watchman slowly put his pistol away, slipping it into a backwards holster riding high on his left hip. He then removed papers and tobacco and rolled a cigarette. He was nervous and handled the job poorly, spilling tobacco all over. At length he had a smokable cigarette, which he put onto his lip as he reached for matches. As he fired up the cigarette, he eyed Kenton through the rising smoke.

  “I know who you are,” he said. “You’re Brady Kenton, I believe.”

  Kenton considered lying, but rejected it. He was too easily identifiable. “I am, indeed.”

  “A successful man, you are. A man of some means.”

  “I’m not wealthy by most standards. Successful, yes.”

  “I want a hundred dollars. That’s the price of my friendship.”

  Kenton actually felt relieved. He’d expected to have to pay a much more costly bribe than that. He frowned, though, as if he’d just been deeply gouged. “You’re an expensive friend, sir. May I reach for my wallet without you reaching for your pistol?”

  “You may.”

  Kenton produced his wallet, hoping he had the needed amount of cash. He did, with only a couple of dollars to spare. He handed the money to the watchman, who snatched it eagerly and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Thank you … friend. I think you can go now.”

  Kenton frowned. “I smell smoke.”

  The other laughed, a little contemptuously now that he had, in his own mind, gotten the best of the famous Brady Kenton. “Of course you do. I’m smoking a cigarette.”

  “What I smell isn’t tobacco smoke.”

  The watchman dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot. He stepped out into the hall.

  “Fire … there’s fire upstairs! Smoke blowing down the stairwell…”

  Kenton was up and past the watchman in a moment. He ran toward the stairs, pausing a moment to assess the amount of smoke, then pounded up them.

  The watchman followed, not as speedily or bravely. He was wondering how all this was going to look for him. How the devil had a fire started? Would he be blamed? He hadn’t even been on that floor—but he couldn’t tell them that, because he was supposed to patrol every floor during his shift. Would they figure out he’d been sleeping in the basement most of the night? What about Brady Kenton’s presence? Would that become known, and the fact he’d just taken a bribe from Kenton?

  The smoke was thick in the upper hallway, and it thickened the farther the guard progressed. Kenton had already vanished into the roiling darkness ahead. The only light here came from the fire itself, the exact location of which the watchman hadn’t yet pinpointed.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Where are you!” Then he couldn’t yell at all, for hot smoke had filled his throat. He gagged and coughed and choked, and knew he had to turn back. He turned and advanced, and ran into the wall where it seemed to him the wall shouldn’t be. Confused, he turned the other way, and ran into the wall again.

  Panic set in. He felt he was lost in a box that was steadily filling with choking smoke. He slammed the wall again, turned, and could no longer tell at all which way he was moving.

  Heart hammering, lungs filled with something like airborne acid, he felt his consciousness begin to fade and his legs lose their strength. He sank to the floor and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Alex Gunnison came to a stop in a dark Denver back street and leaned against a telegraph pole, panting and sweating.

  He wasn’t sure how far he’d run or even exactly in what direction. He’d deliberately taken odd turns and twists, cutting up driveways and through alleys, and even across a couple of dark yards, in an attempt to elude anyone who might have pursued him out of that office building.

  As he caught his breath and shook off his panic, he began to realize that the effort had probably been overdone. No one had pursued him, apparently. All he’d managed to do was to get himself lost, and separate himself from Kenton.

  A dog in a nearby yard began to bark at him. He ignored it, leaning against the pole, resting, beginning to worry about Kenton. Had Kenton gotten away, or been caught? Gunnison hadn’t lingered to see if Kenton came out of the building after him. He’d assumed that he had, and that they’d reconnect back at Kenton’s rented dive, but now he wasn’t sure.

  The dog’s barking stirred someone in one of the nearby houses to come to a back door and yell at Gunnison: “Get away from here, you sorry drunk! Go lean on somebody else’s pole!”

  Gunnison waved contemptuously in the direction of the unseen shouter. He’d been heckled enough in Leadville; he’d not abide more of it here in Denver. But he also straightened up and began to walk away, hoping to find his bearings once he reached a main thoroughfare.

  It took longer than he’d expected, but finally he located a street he recognized and began walking in the direction of Kenton’s room.

  He was alone on the s
treet except for the occasional pedestrian or passing horseman. Most of these either ignored him or gave a casual tip of the hat. A friendly city, Denver. And a place where a man could walk the streets after dark and feel safe.

  Not that Gunnison himself felt particularly safe at the moment. Being nearly discovered breaking into a publishing office had given him the willies, and every shadow seemed like a pursuer.

  He passed the cafe whose window Kenton had shattered, and winced at the memory. The place was still under repair, and Gunnison considered that Kenton was surely taking a great risk in staying in Denver after pulling such a foolish stunt—especially while living in a rented room within view of the very place whose window he’d demolished. Maybe this evening’s experience would rid him of his obsession with that ridiculous manuscript.

  Gunnison headed up the stairs to Kenton’s quarters, hopeful of finding Kenton waiting for him there. He certainly hoped Kenton had gotten out of that publishing office … heaven forbid he’d been caught!

  Gunnison reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner, then stopped, aware suddenly of another human presence near the door.

  “Kenton, is that you?”

  The figure advanced, and Gunnison knew right away it wasn’t Kenton. He backed away, reaching beneath his coat for his pistol.

  CHAPTER 21

  RACHEL Frye advanced slowly, coming toward him from the end of the hall. For Gunnison the experience was almost eerily repetitive of his hallway encounter with this woman in Leadville, and she seemed almost ghostlike to him.

  “You again!” Gunnison said, backing away farther yet and bringing out the pistol.

  “You aren’t going to shoot me, sir, are you?” she said. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I remember you, oh yes.”

  “Why do you have that gun out, Mr. Gunnison? You’re frightening me!”

  Gunnison might have admitted that she was frightening him, too. Everything that Jessup Best had told him about this young woman flew through his mind, filling him with caution.