Yes, Arlie and Boz would have to go. He would have to kill them. And murdering Boz, at least, would be a positive pleasure. A mean bastard, that Boz. Senselessly mean. Always twisting your arms or bending back your fingers or jabbing you with a stick. Any damned thing to hear you holler. Old Ike had caught him skinning a live kitten one day, and he'd had the kitten cooked for Boz's supper. And he'd made him eat it, too. Old Ike would give him a crack with a horsewhip every time he'd stopped eating; never letting up on his son until he'd begun vomiting blood. But that still didn't let Boz off the hook. He was allowed to stop eating, but only for that night. He got cat for breakfast the next morning and every meal after that – no other food, by God – until he'd eaten every damned bit of it.
And even that didn't change Boz a bit. He'd gotten sneakier, harder to catch in his nastiness, but he was meaner than ever.
Critch had acquired the learning and maturity of mind to understand why Boz was as he was. He'd never forgiven his brother, but he did understand him. As the oldest son, he'd caught the full force of his father's sternness, excruciatingly dulling it with his hide and making it bearable for his younger brothers. As the oldest, more had been demanded of him. When he couldn't deliver, promptly and perfectly, Old Ike had landed on him. So, inevitably, Boz had turned mean. Helpless against his father's wrath, Boz had turned his own rage against other helpless things.
As for Arlington – Arlie – well, his demise would genuinely trouble Critch (though not enough to keep him from bringing it off). Most middle-children get relatively little attention, as compared with a family's youngest and oldest, suffering neither spoiling nor strictness. Thus, they develop as a benign nature dictates they should – giving happiness to get it, being pleasing to be pleased – and they usually turn out well.
Arlie was hard and tough, as any son of Old Ike would have to be. But along with it he was good-natured and helpful. A nice guy. Or so Critch thought of him…
Now, Critch jumped up from the bed with a curse. Angrily telling himself that it was time to get moving.
He had to do something – something, by God! – and he had to do it now. Lifting his two expensive bags to the bed, he impatiently sorted through them, inventorying the expensive suits and shirts, and all the other accoutrements of a well-heeled gentleman.
He finished his assay; stood frowning, his eyes narrowed in thought. A lot of valuable stuff, but it wouldn't bring much at a second-hand store. Wouldn't do to sell it, anyway, since, as much as money, he needed the appearance. Once a man lost his front, he couldn't operate.
There was one thing, now. The watch. The impressively embossed watch, with its studding of sparkling stones, which bore a famous and honored name.
Critch lifted it from his Gladstone and held it up for examination. A watch like that was worth five hundred dollars – as any fool could see. Rather, it would have been worth five hundred, if it had been the gold that it appeared to be, and if the apparent diamonds had been real, and if the brand name had been genuine instead of counterfeit.
The trouble with selling a thing like this was that (1) you had to claim ownership, and (2) a professional estimate of its value was invariably called for. Oh, of course, you could probably unload it on someone for a quick double sawbuck. But expert fakery like this was costly, and turning it for a twenty would be little more than a matter of swapping dollars.
The watch couldn't be sold, then. It was his one bet, but he could attempt no scheme with it which might bring trouble. Too much was at stake, and he was simply too funky to face trouble.
What he needed was a fool, a prize Grade-A chump. One who could be cashed in fast and heavily. And in a way which could not possibly bring a kickback.
Where was one most likely to find such a fool? What was the way whereby said fool could be safely cashed in?
Critch's scowl of concentration suddenly disappeared, and a slow smile spread over his handsome face. *d*
She had come in on the train from the north some thirty minutes ago. A young woman, judging by what he could glimpse through her filmy half veil. He couldn't see much of her face; and her clothes, odds and ends of ill-fitting stuff, pretty well concealed her body. But whether she was attractive or well-shaped didn't matter. In all the things that did matter, she seemed to fit the bill.
A fool traveling alone. A fool with a couple of pretty nice bags. Getting off the train from the north, she'd come into the station with timidity-slumped shoulders, and glanced around with quick shyness. Then she'd retired to a bench well away from everyone else, and she'd been sitting there ever since. Head ducked, hands clenched in her lap. So frightened and nervous by these strange surroundings that she'd probably jump if you said boo to her.
She hadn't traveled far: wasn't sufficiently rumpled and smoke-smeared to have come from any great distance. But her manner and the two heavy bags indicated that she had some distance to go. Critch felt the train-ticket nestled in an inner pocket of his tailored coat, wondering if he could possibly be as lucky as the signs seemed to indicate.
He'd bought the ticket, intending to cash it in if he had to, to the army-base town of Lawton. Buying it at an excursion rate and getting it much cheaper than the fare to King's Junction, which was a shorter distance away. Now, if this scared-to-death little skirt was also going to Lawton –
Well, it didn't matter too much either way. She was obviously a fool who could be cashed in for something.
Critch straightened his shoulders. He came briskly out of the shadowed recess from which he had been studying her, looked sharply around the waiting room in the manner of a man seeking someone, then allowed himself to see her. She seemed to make herself smaller under his stare. Frowning, keeping his eyes fixed on her shrinking figure, Critch strode across the waiting room and sat down next to her.
'May I see your ticket?' he said firmly.
'W-wha – ' A frightened gasp from behind the veil. 'W-why – what -?'
'Your ticket please! Let me see it.'
He held out his hand. She fumbled open her purse, allowing him a quick look at the comfortable roll of bills inside, and almost snatched out the ticket.
Critch took it, and examined it at length. His pulse quickening a little as he saw its destination.
Lawton – Fort Sill. A soldier's wife or prospective bride, or kin. And she'd never been there before, obviously, or she wouldn't be so nervous about it.
'Going to Fort Sill, eh?' He handed back the ticket. 'Is that your home?'
'N-no, sir. It's Kan – I mean, Missouri.'
'Yes?' – very sharply.
'M-Missouri. Kansas City, Missouri.'
She gave him the street address; then, with a frightened little rush, told him her name. Anderson, Anne Anderson. And she was the wife of Private John Anderson, and they'd been married when he was home on furlough, and now she was going to join him, and – and –
'Now, now, dear…' Smiling warmly, he cut her off. 'I'm Captain Crittenden, base legal officer at the post. Perhaps you've heard your husband speak of me? Well, at any rate, I had to establish who you were and be sure you were an honest person, because…'
Because of this valuable watch he'd found at the entrance to the depot. (A beauty, wasn't it? Solid gold, with diamonds.) The station agent didn't look very reliable to him. Probably say he was going to turn the watch over to the rightful owner, and never do it – and how could he, the Captain, be sure it was done after he'd gone on his way? He'd made a few inquiries on his own without any luck, and now he had business up in town for a few minutes. So as long as she was going to be here, anyway, would she mind keeping the watch in case the owner showed up?