Colonel Rutherford's Colt Read Free Page B

dealing primarily in rum and tobacco. Ordinarily Susan would have been reluctant to speak with such a handsome young man, knowing that Sebastian reported her every movement to the colonel. But Sebastian had formed a romantic attachment with one of the palace maids; after leaving his charge at the banquet room door, he hurried off to meet his girlfriend. Thus liberated, Susan . . .
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    * * *
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    â€œExcuse me!” Someone tapped Jimmy on the shoulder, making him jump. A tall middle-aged man with a bushy brown mustache, wide shoulders and an erect bearing. He wore a gray sport coat over a polo shirt. His face was squarish, a bit lantern-jawed, and his brow scored by what struck Jimmy as three regulation furrows, each the same wavy shape as the one above or below, like an insignia of rank in some strange army. He smiled broadly and stuck out his hand. “Raymond Borchard,” he said, sounding each letter in every syllable, as if expecting Jimmy might have a need to spell the name.
    Jimmy didn’t care for being interrupted in the middle of a story, but he supposed he had no one to blame but himself for working on it in a public place. He gave Borchard a limp hand so as to minimize what he presumed would be a serious massaging.
    â€œI want to inquire about a gun,” Borchard said. “The very gun you’re holding, as a matter of fact.”
    Jimmy looked down at the Colt. “You after a Nineteen-Eleven, you can find one cheaper somewheres else.”
    â€œI believe,” Borchard said, “that’s Bob Champion’s Colt.”
    â€œSure is.”
    â€œI’d like to buy it.”
    â€œWell, that’s good to hear,” said Jimmy. “But it just now come to me, and I ain’t had time to check it out . . . figure what it’s worth. None of that.”
    â€œFour thousand,” said Borchard. “You won’t do better than four.”
    â€œHell you say!” Jimmy said testily. “You ain’t a dealer. You don’t have a clue what I can get.”
    Borchard was big-boned and thick-waisted, and he surely went six-four, six-five. A man, by Jimmy’s estimation, accustomed to having his way. The Borchard smile quivered, as if it was a strain to hold. A sharpness surfaced in his polished baritone, like a reef showing at low tide. “I apologize,” he said. “I’m not usually so disrespectful. Chalk it up to eagerness.”
    Jimmy opened a display case and laid the Colt in beside a dueling pistol fancied by gold filigree and an engraved plate on the grip.
    Borchard spread his hands, inviting Jimmy to take his best shot. “Now you know how much I want the Colt, why not seize the advantage and name your price?”
    â€œâ€™Cause like I said, I ain’t had time to figure a price.” Jimmy locked the display case.
    â€œSix thousand.” The Borchard smile had vanished.
    â€œSix? This here gun must really make your eagle big.” Jimmy patted the case that contained the Colt. “Wonder how much you’ll want it tomorrow?”
    Borchard folded his arms and stood there like he was Captain Authority without his crimefighter’s costume and mask. “I gather from your attitude you’ve heard of me.”
    â€œHasn’t everybody? Major Ray Borchard’s a damn household word where I hail from.”
    By the uncertainty in Borchard’s face, Jimmy suspected that the major wasn’t sure whether or not to accept this statement as fact.
    â€œYou don’t much like me, Mister Guy. Is it my politics?”
    â€œNaw, I deal with your kind all the time.”
    â€œMy kind?” Borchard chuckled. “And what kind is that?”
    â€œWanna-bes.” Jimmy locked the case, pocketed the key. “Old guys jerking off in the woods with twenty-man redneck armies and dreaming about world domination. Folks like you make up a good piece of my business.”
    â€œThen