It also seemed that Addington closed its doors early. The only lights in the business district were those of the saloons, and Longarm was not interested at the moment in being the subject of whispers and stares. Better figure to head back to the hotel for the evening.
Besides, if Amos—uh, Lester Colton hereabouts, and he damn well better remember that before he slipped up and gave Amos away—wanted to see him about anything, it would be at the hotel where contact could be made.
The way he and Amos figured it, Norm Colton’s cousin would have no qualms about talking with a federal peace officer. Far from it, in fact. And from Longarm’s point of view, Cousin Lester would be one of the very few folks in Addington willing to talk with him. So there was no harm in the two being seen together. It should seem only natural to the locals and should in fact support Amos’s false identity. Smoking contentedly on a good cheroot, Longarm walked down the sidewalk toward the hotel.
As he approached the Nare and Son hardware—Peter apparently was the Son indicated there as he had no surviving children of his own—Longarm’s gaze was naturally drawn in that direction. He stopped, hand halfway to his mouth and his lips already parted to receive the soggy end of his cigar. There might not be much for light at street level, but there damn sure was a light behind one of the windows on the second floor of the murder victim’s store. Someone was moving around inside there, carrying what looked to be a candle instead of a lamp.
But Pete Nare had no living kin. He’d lived alone. And at this time of night there was no sensible reason for anyone to be inside the living quarters over top of the hardware.
It crossed Longarm’s mind that Sylvie Allard could have had reason to sneak inside. To recover love notes, perhaps, or other mementos of the long-standing affair between her and Nare.
She might be interested for reasons of sweet sentiment. Or as likely it would be to keep her husband from finding out that he was wearing a cuckold’s horns.
On the other hand …
Longarm tossed the butt of his cheroot into the street and moved swiftly across the open expanse and into the shadows. His hand automatically sought the reassuring presence of the big double-action Colt that rode as always in its cross-draw rig just to the left of his belt buckle.
Not that he was expecting trouble exactly. But a man never knows. And he did not know for certain sure that it was Sylvie Allard upstairs in that otherwise dark building, did he?
He felt his way back through the alley that ran beside Nare’s building and found the doorway where Nare had died roughly twenty-four hours earlier. It occurred to Longarm that if Nare opened the door facing into this alley and was himself standing in the light inside he would have had no night vision whatsoever and therefore may well never have seen the man who shot him dead. A fellow should at least be allowed to know why he was being killed, surely. But then, shit, life is not fair to begin with and death is even less so.
Longarm tried the door and found it unlocked. Closed but not locked. From the outside no one would notice a thing amiss.
Careful to make no sound, Longarm slipped inside and eased the door shut behind him. He felt his way up the staircase, keeping close to the side wall where there was less likelihood of stepping on a loose, squeaking board that would give him away.
He moved up the stairs slowly. A few inevitable bumps and squeals occurred, but he knew they were quiet enough that the only one apt to notice was himself. To him, of course, they sounded pretty much akin to the noise of a bass drum marching down the boulevard on a Fourth of July afternoon. To anyone else they would likely seem no more than the normal creaks and groanings that every building makes at night. He reached the top of the stairs. And didn’t know which goddamn way to go next. That is, he knew which general direction he wanted.
But he’d never been inside the place before and had no idea how it was laid out. It was something he could have asked Sylvie earlier but simply hadn’t thought to. Dammit.
And there was no longer any candle flame to be seen, at least not back here where he was. Either whoever was in the place had extinguished the light or there was a door closed between the stairwell and the candle because for sure no light from it intruded here.
Longarm pondered his options. If he blundered around in this deep, stygian space he was sure as hell gonna trip over something, bump into something, some way make a racket that would scare the shit out of whoever else was up here, which would certainly do Longarm no good. Or he could risk a light of his own.
What the hell, he reasoned. If he couldn’t see the other guy’s candle then the other guy couldn’t see his match. And, really, Longarm was pretty well convinced by now that the nocturnal intruder almost had to be Sylvie Allard.
Longarm didn’t want to frighten or to embarrass her. He certainly did not want to expose her secrets to the town.
For a moment he considered leaving as silently as he had come, just getting out so that she would never know he had caught onto her search. But then, he didn’t know for certain-sure, did he, that it was Mrs. Allard who was up here.
Better, he decided, to strike a match and get his bearings. Then he could sneak forward through the place and look to see that it was indeed Mrs. Allard. Once he was satisfied as to that, he decided, he would slide on out again. She would never have to know that he’d come up and checked on her.
As soon as his decision was made, Longarm dipped a thumb and forefinger into the vest pocket where he kept his matches. He brought out a sulfur-tipped lucifer and used a thumbnail to snap it afire.
The result was somewhat more than he’d anticipated. No sooner had the flame burst alive, surrounding him with a glare of yellow light, than he heard a roar of surprise. Definitely a man’s deep voice. And half heard, half saw a bulky form launching itself from somewhere to the left, from the direction away from where he had seen the candlelight minutes earlier.
Shit, apparently whoever was up here finished what he wanted and was feeling around in the dark, either looking for something else or hunting for the stairs so he could leave. Or whatever.
Longarm really didn’t have time to ponder it. Not right then. He heard a bellow of shock and of challenge. Sensed the looming presence of another person. Felt a shoulder drive hard into his lower ribs.
The breath was thumped out of him, and he crashed sideways into a wall, rebounding off it and losing his footing. He felt something hard and bony—a shin, he thought later—connect with his shoulder and something else—a boot, maybe—hit the side of his face.
There was another yelp, this one of fear more than anything, and the loud clatter of someone taking a fall down the dark stairs.
“Jesus!” a voice called.
Very sensible, Longarm thought. Nobody else was likely to help. Not in a mess like this.
His shoulder felt numb, the side of his face stung like he’d been slapped by Six or seven he women one right after another, and he couldn’t breathe. Other than that, he was doing okay.
He heard the thumping and bumping continue all the way to the bottom of the stairwell. There was some more crashing about down there and then the sound of a door slamming shut. Ah well, Longarm thought. So much for the notion that Mrs. Allard stopped by on a mission of sweet sentiment.
He stayed sitting on the floor—it would have been more comfortable if Peter Nare had invested in some carpet—until he got his breath, then once more found a match to light his way, this time finding a lamp and getting the thing aflame so he could make a proper search of things. One thing at a time, he thought, and all in due and proper order.