In The Blood

Two

TwoPinkerton Central Office, Chicago, Illinois

Three months before Simms taught Noreen to shoot, he rolled into the main office of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Chicago, Illinois. A stunned silence settled over the room, every face from every desk staring. Standing in the doorway, Simms met each of his colleagues' faces with icy resolve, wondering what their next reaction would be. He didn't have to wait long. The room erupted into a frenzy of wild cheering, backslapping and general merriment as colleagues rushed to him, congratulating him with unbridled delight. From somewhere, someone thrust a tumbler of whisky into his hand, whilst someone else broke out in song, but it all ceased as quickly as it had begun when the commander's office door swung open. An uneasy silence descended. Simms gave his excuses, edging his way through the press of beaming fellow detectives, and stood in front of Chesterton.

“I have to hand it to you, Simms, you did better than I expected.”

This was as close to a compliment as Simms was going to get, and he smiled, tipping his hat. “General Russell was overcome with joy to be reunited with his daughter.”

Chesterton grunted, then turned his gaze to the room where men were laughing and joking again, the tension easing. They drank too, perhaps more than Chesterton was prepared to allow. The big Commander of Detectives pulled in a breath and barked, “Get back to work. Party is over!”

Without a pause, the men obeyed the commands and scurried back to their desks, some muttering, most silent. Chesterton grunted again and waved Simms inside his office.

Simms pulled up short. A man sat with his back to him. Broad across the shoulders, he wore a brown tweed jacket, his lank, black hair falling to the collar. He swung around in his chair, face impassive, large, dark eyes studying the detective with a keen interest.

Simms felt a dryness in his throat, something he didn't normally experience when faced with another human being. But this man was different. He was his employer, Allan Pinkerton.

“Detective Simms,” said Chesterton, moving around to the far side of his desk, “this is Mr. Allan Pinkerton, founder and director of our agency.”

Simms nodded. “I recognize you from your photograph in the newspapers. Pleased to know you, sir.” The detective stepped forward and shook the man's hand.

“Likewise.” Pinkerton made no move to stand up but instead remained sitting, his eyes taking in the lean figure of Simms who, himself, offered no movement. He dropped his hand to his lap. “So, you read newspapers, Mr. Simms.”

“When I get the chance.”

“Yes, when you get the chance.”

“Out on the range it's often difficult to keep abreast of news and the like.”

Chesterton blew out a sigh and sat down, face dark with annoyance. Simms's gruff manner often had such an effect on the Chief of Detectives.

“You wear your guns like a gunfighter,” remarked Pinkerton, motioning to the Colt Dragoon holstered at Simms's waist. Underneath his coat, another pistol rested in its holster under the detective's right armpit. “I'm not certain if such a display is warranted, certainly not here in Chicago. You could even be breaking the law by carrying such firearms, detective.”

Simms tilted his head. “I have permits. As all detectives are so obliged. I'm no different.”

“Even so.”

Simms dragged his gaze from his employer to Chesterton, “Is this why I'm here? To be berated over carrying weapons?” Simms gave an easy smile. “After all I've done?”

Chesterton bristled, shot a glance towards Pinkerton, then back to his lead detective. “We have another situation, Simms.”

“One that doesn't require me to shoot…” He turned again to Pinkerton. “Or kill?”

It was Pinkerton's turn to recoil a little. “Mr. Simms, what you accomplished out in the Territories was nothing short of a miracle. Not only with the rescue of Elisabeth Russell, but also your single-handed apprehension of those two heartless killers. You have promoted the work of our agency to dizzying heights. I was honored to be in the presence of the President only the other day, and listen to him commending us for the work we have done. So, I'm not criticizing you, Detective, I'm merely pointing out that perhaps, just perhaps, you should be a little more circumspect in your display of firearms. We have appearances to maintain now.” He reached into his own coat and produced a small, black revolver.

But Simms was already moving. In a blur, the Colt Dragoon materialized in his right fist, pointing unerringly at Chesterton, with the other g*n, a Navy Colt, levelled at Pinkerton. In the eerie stillness of the room, the heavy sound of the hammers c*****g and cylinders being engaged, sent a chill through the air.

Chesterton managed a rattling, “Jesus, Simms.”

“Don't ever pull a g*n on me,” said Simms through gritted teeth, his eyes glinting with a barely controlled menace towards Pinkerton. “If you do, you're a dead man, Mr. Pinkerton.”

Pinkerton, frozen in the act of drawing the revolver, held up his other hand, palm outward. “Mr. Simms, I'm not about to shoot you.”

“Doesn't seem that way from here.”

“I beg you, please…”

“Simms, put the goddamned guns away,” said Chesterton, the anger rumbling in his throat.

Simms blinked, but only once. “Lay it on the table, then step back.”

“I have no intention of—”

“On the table, Mr. Pinkerton. Then you can explain why you pulled a g*n on me.”

Pinkerton nodded and with infinite care, settled the revolver on the tabletop. He looked up at Chesterton. “He's quite right, I should have warned him. My mistake.” He turned to Simms. “You're a dangerous man to know, Mr. Simms. I'm not sure if I'm all that comfortable with such knowledge.”

Simms holstered the Dragoon, but kept the Navy in his left fist. He stepped across to the table and lifted the smaller revolver Pinkerton had produced.

“It's a pocket-model Colt,” explained Pinkerton. “My plan is to arm all of my detectives with this weapon, allowing them to maintain a modicum of decency whilst conducting their duties in the city. Its size allows for its positioning in a shoulder holster, not unlike your own, Detective, but without the overt display you seem so intent upon. Concealment and protection – that's my desire.”

“You could have said.”

“I do not need to explain myself to you, Detective. But, in this instance, you are correct. I should have pre-warned you.” Pinkerton's smile returned. “Apologies.”

Simms released his breath in a long stream. “Apology accepted.” He slowly released the hammer of his Navy Colt and dropped it back into his holster, at the same time examining the pocket model more closely. “It's not even loaded.”

“It is not my desire to walk around the great city of Chicago with a loaded g*n, Detective. As I explained.”

Simms looked up to catch Chesterton's enraged face. “You're awful close to crossing the line, Simms.”

Pinkerton threw up his arms, “Ah, commander, the fault lies with me. Detective Simms is a man of the Frontier, a hardened, intrepid enforcer; a man who must react as instincts dictate. You fought in the Mexican War, so I understand?”

“Yes, I did.”

“With some distinction, I've heard?”

“I wouldn't know about that.”

“Really? You were mentioned in dispatches, on several occasions. I understand you refused a Certificate of Merit?”

“It wasn't something which much interested me – I never quite saw the reasons for honoring a man's ability to kill others.”

“I believe you rescued a group of civilians who were being held in a church? You single-handedly—”

Holding up his hand, Simms cut off any further narration. “I don't care to talk about any of that, Mr. Pinkerton. It was all a very long time ago.”

“Yes, but it made you into the resourceful and skillful individual you are now. Our agency has need of such talents.”

“That's hardly the word I'd use for what I do.”

“No, but nevertheless …” Shooting a quick glance towards Chesterton, Pinkerton sat back in his chair and sighed. “Very well, let's put this behind us and continue with what I came here to discuss.” He smiled at Simms. “What I'm going to say will suit your particular attributes entirely, Detective Simms.” He motioned Simms to another chair which stood in the far corner. “Please, sit down, and hear me out.” He pointed to the pocket revolver. “You may keep that, for when you're next in Chicago.”

“I already am.”

“Yes. But not for much longer.”

Simms sank into the nearby chair and listened to what this curious man had to say.