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Oxnard smiled. “It’s easy to remember a name with a pretty face.”
“Did she say where she was staying?”
“No, but I can only assume it’s in a crib.” He gave Bell a sly look. “You going to look her up?”
“No,” said Bell thoughtfully. “I hardly think a woman is the Butcher Bandit.”
25
MARGARET WAS NOT ENDURING THE LIFE OF A PROSTITUTE in a crib on Pacific Avenue. She was living in style in the New Sheridan Hotel. After opening a small account at the town bank to examine the floor plan, number of employees and where they were located, and the type of safe, she made the rounds of the mining companies to make inquiries about a long-lost husband who never existed. The effort gave her story substance, and soon she became the source of gossip around town.
She went so far as to call on Sheriff Pardee with her bogus story, to see what kind of man he was face-to-face. Mrs. Alice Pardee came into the office when Margaret was asking the sheriff for his cooperation in finding her husband. Alice immediately felt sorry for the woman in the cheap, well-faded cotton dress who poured out her sad tale of the abandoned wife desperately seeking the man who had deserted her. Alice assumed that this Rachel Jordan was half starved and invited her up to their house for dinner. Margaret accepted and arrived in the same cheap dress, which she had bought in San Francisco at a used-clothing store for the poor.
That evening, Margaret made a display of helping Alice Pardee in the kitchen, but it was obvious to the sheriff’s wife that their guest was not at home over a hot stove. Alice served a homemade meal of mutton chops, boiled potatoes, and steamed vegetables, topped off by an apple pie for dessert. After dinner, tea was served and everyone settled in the parlor, where Alice played tunes on an old upright piano.
“Tell me, Mrs. Jordan,” Alice asked, pausing to change the sheet music, “where are you staying?”
“A nice lady, Miss Billy Maguire, hired me as a waitress at her ladies’ boardinghouse.”
Pardee and his wife exchanged pained glances. Alice sucked in her breath. “Big Billy is the madam of the Silver Belle bordello,” she said. “Didn’t you know that?”
Margaret made a display of looking sheepish. “I had no idea.”
Alice bought Margaret’s lie, Pardee did not. He knew there was no way any woman could fail to recognize the difference between a boardinghouse and a bordello. The germ of suspicion began to grow in his mind, but his wife was swept by compassion.
“You poor thing,” she said, putting her arm around Margaret. “You’ll not stay at the Silver Belle another minute. You’ll stay here with Henry and me until you find your husband.”
“But he may not be in Telluride,” Margaret said as if about to weep. “Then I would have to move on, and I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Nonsense,” said Alice. “You march right back to Big Billy’s and bring back your things. I’ll make up the spare bed for you.”
Margaret went into her act and shed a few tears. “How can I ever thank you? How can I ever repay you?”
“Don’t give it a thought. Henry and I are only too glad to help a poor soul in distress. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
As she sipped her coffee, Margaret moved the conversation to Pardee’s job as sheriff. “You
have to live an exciting life,” she said. “Telluride seems like an uninhibited town. You must be kept quite busy.”
“The miners can get pretty rowdy at times,” Pardee agreed, “but serious crimes like murder don’t happen but once every six months or so. It’s been peaceful since the union strikes by the miners two years ago, when the governor sent in the army to squelch the rioting.”
Margaret was slow and deliberate in her answers to Pardee’s questions about her missing husband. She in turn made general inquiries about the town and the mines. “A lot of money must pass through the bank to the mining companies,” she said casually.
Pardee nodded. “The payrolls can add up to a considerable amount.”
“And you never have a fear of robbers and thieves?” she asked innocently.
“The miners are a solid lot and rarely indulge in crime. Except for occasional fights in the saloons, or a killing when a confrontation gets out of hand, the town is pretty quiet.”
“When I was in the bank, I saw that the safe looked very strong and secure.”
“It’s strong, all right,” said Pardee, lighting his pipe. “Five sticks of dynamite couldn’t blow it open.”
“And the bank manager is the only one who knows the combination?”
Pardee thought it strange a question like that came from a woman, but he answered without hesitation. “Actually, the locking bolts are set to spring open at ten o’clock every morning. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the manager closes the door and sets the clock.”
“Someone at the Silver Belle told me Butch Cassidy robbed the local bank.”
