Part 15 (2/2)
But no one opened the door to room 210, either.
So maybe he should talk to this French countess.
Grigsby had never talked to a countess before, French or otherwise, and he knew that the opportunity wasn't likely to present itself again.
He knocked on the door to 211 and waited. Nothing happened.
He turned, was starting back down the corridor, when the door opened a foot or so and a woman stood there. ”Yes?”
She was short, maybe five foot three, and she was blond, her hair falling in long bouncy curls to her shoulders. From her brown eyes-which looked like they'd seen a few things in their time, and enjoyed most of them-she was probably somewhere between thirty-five and forty years old, but her skin was as smooth and white as a baby's. Pink cheeks, a small nose, a mouth that was just a shade or two more red than natural. (Brenda's lipstick, when she worked the saloon, was the color of boiled beets.) She wore a silk dressing gown, pale blue, clinging, belted just below a pair of b.r.e.a.s.t.s whose upper curves peeked out at the top, as round and plump as peaches.
”You'd be the Countess,” Grigsby said.
”Yes?” Her lips went pouty as they moved around the word.
He tapped the brim of his Stetson. ”Marshal Bob Grigsby, ma'am. Wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”
She c.o.c.ked her head slightly. ”A marshal?”
”Federal officer, ma'am. A lawman.”
”Oh yes? There is some problem?”
”No, ma'am, not for you. Just need to talk to you for a bit, is all.”
”I see. Yes, then, please. Come in.”
She took a step back and Grigsby moved forward into a warm pocket of scent, a perfume that was light and fresh and probably expensive, and all at once he realized that most likely he smelled, himself, like the bottom of a whiskey barrel.
She smiled and held out a hand toward the pair of wooden chairs by the window. ”Please. Sit.”
Grigsby took off his hat, ran his fingers through the matted hair at his temples.
”Here,” said the Countess, reaching for the hat. ”May I take this?”
Grigsby surrendered it, and noticed for the first time that it could stand a good cleaning.
The woman turned it around, eyeing it appreciatively. ”A most formidable headpiece,” she said, and smiled at Grigsby.
”Yes ma'am,” he said. ”It's a Stetson. Out of St. Louis, Missouri.”
”Admirable,” she said, and indicated the chairs again. ”Please.”
He crossed the room, turned one of the chairs to face the other, and sat down. He crossed his legs, booted ankle atop his knee, his spur suddenly lethal, and he wondered what to do with his big heavy hands. They seemed, right now, to be located a long way from his shoulders. He crossed his arms over his chest.
The Countess set the Stetson on the dresser and then sat down opposite Grigsby. She leaned slightly toward him, her own small hands folded at her lap, and smiled again. ”Now. How may I help?”
”Well, ma'am,” said Grigsby, trying to keep his stare from sinking toward the soft swell of b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and mostly succeeding. ”You been with this tour of Mr. Wilde's since San Francisco, that right?”
She nodded, waiting. ”Yes?”
”Well, ma'am, it looks like somebody on the tour-one of the fellas, I mean, I don't know which one of 'em-it looks like maybe he's killing people. In different towns along the way,” he finished. He realized that he was sweating.
Warm in here. The woodstove.
The Countess frowned, her lips daintily bunching together. ”I'm sorry?”
Grigsby tugged at his collar. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ”See, ma'am, it was a coincidence, like. I got these letters, is what happened, from people in these different towns. San Francisco. And El Paso. And Leavenworth, Kansas. And see, in all these towns, somebody killed off a woman. Killed her off and, well, what he did, he cut her up pretty bad. Now the thing of it is, all these women got killed off at the same time that Mr. Wilde was there, givin' one of his talks. Hadna been for these letters, I wouldna figured it out. And now, what's happened is, just last night one of them got killed off here in Denver.”
”Killed?” said the Countess, her head bent forward, her arched eyebrows moving in puzzlement. ”Who was killed?”
”Ladies of the evening, ma'am. Women that were, well, no better than they had to be, if you follow me.”
”Ladies of ...? Poules? Prost.i.tutes?”
”Yeah,” said Grigsby, relieved and grateful. ”Yes, ma'am. Prost.i.tutes.”
”In San Francisco? The other towns? In every town where Oscair spoke?”
”Well, ma'am, I don't rightly know about every town. I'll be lookin' into that. But the thing is, they were all killed off the same way, exactly. So it's pretty clear to me that it musta been the same guy, each time. Which means-”
”Which would mean,” said the Countess, ”yes, that very possibly one of the people traveling with the tour, he is a murderer.” She sat back. ”How horrible,” she said, and shook her head. ”But this is ghastly.”
”Yes ma'am.”
Looking off, she said again, ”How horrible.”
”So what I thought, ma'am, I thought I'd come and ask you, since you been on the tour all this time, if maybe you seen anything or heard anything that might help me get a bead on this fella.”
The Countess frowned again. ”I'm sorry? My English. Sometimes it is inadequate.”
”Not a bit of it, ma'am. What I'm lookin' for, ya see, is anything that could help me figure out who this fella is. You were in all those towns, along with the rest of 'em. Maybe you saw somethin'. Maybe you heard somethin'.”
”But no. Nothing. This, today, what you tell me, this is the first I have heard of such a thing. If even for a moment I had thought-” She broke off, shook her head. She looked at Grigsby, leaned forward. ”Are you quite certain, Mr. Greegsby-forgive me, it is Greegsby?”
”Yes ma'am. Grigsby.”
”Are you quite certain there is no possibility of error?”
”Well, ma'am, no,” Grigsby said. ”I don't hardly think so.”
She sat slowly back again, looking worn and drawn, and suddenly she seemed to be years older than Grigsby had first thought she, was. And, strangely, this made him feel abruptly protective, almost paternal, as though by growing older, by allowing herself to grow older before his eyes, she had become vulnerable and frail, like a little girl.
He said, ”Now listen, Countess. Don't you worry. I'm gonna find this fella. I'm gonna nail-I'm gonna nail him to the wall.”
The Countess had been bleakly staring off, out the window, where the sky had darkened and the streets had grayed. Now she turned to Grigsby and with a visible effort, inhaling deeply, straightening her back, she brought herself back to the room, and back down the years. She produced a small, tired smile. ”Yes,” she said. ”I am sure you will. But I am wondering whether it would be better for me if I left the tour.”
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