Blackjack

8

“What?” Pritchard said with a perturbed expression on his face.

“The murder,” Virgil said.

“I goddamn do not know anything about anyone being murdered,” he said. “Listen, this is a shock to me. Bill works for me, same as Charles. I have many employees, many enterprises, Marshal. All sorts: cotton, coal, a hotel here and there, Western Union offices, banks, and I hire individuals, experts in their particular fields, to help me run my enterprises. I have over a hundred people working for me. Bill Black is just one of them. He’s an expert in the business of gambling. He knows gambling inside and out and he has worked for me for nearly three years. Ever since I got into the business of the gambling trade, but I goddamn know nothing of this business of murder and who was murdered.”

“How does Black knowing gambling inside and out help you, exactly?” Virgil said.

“Just like you knowing law work, Marshal,” he said. “You’ve clearly had many occasions to hone your craft. Same as Charles, same as me, same as Bill.”

“How did you meet him?” Virgil said.

Pritchard focused his look to the floor as he twirled the lion head of his cane around and around.

“He operated a fine gambling parlor in San Francisco, that’s where I met him, there. I bought out the owner of that operation, and with that purchase I got Mr. Black. Much to my liking, I might add.”

“You own him?” Virgil said.

“Own?” he said. “No, of course not. He has helped me build two other halls besides this one, one in Saint Louis and one in Denver.”

“Denver?”

“Yes, Denver,” Pritchard said. “He’s been a loyal and trusted employee and I do not own him.”

“You said you just got here this morning,” I said. “You just come in from Denver, on the morning train?”

“Why, yes,” he said.

“And you didn’t know about this?” I said.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Know about what?”

“The man that was shot arrived on the same train with you this morning.”

“With me?”

Mr. Pritchard leaned back in his chair, looking up at us.

“What are you saying?”

“Just that,” Virgil said.

“Marshal, you would think as old and beat-up as I am that I’d be familiar with all kinds of subterfuge, including when someone doesn’t hear or chooses not to believe what I say.”

“Tell us what you know,” Virgil said.

“I told you,” he said.

Pritchard’s face flushed red.

“I did not know the man,” he said. “But by the nature of this inquiry, I can only assume you are suggesting that I am in some way connected to this altercation and that I must be propagating deceitfulness.”

“We are not suggesting anything,” I said.

“Goddamn sure sounds like it,” he said.

“Just trying to put together the comings and goings of all this, Mr. Pritchard,” I said.

“You might not know,” Virgil said, “but at this point in time you know more than we do, and until we know more than you do we will keep asking questions of you or anybody else until we get to the bottom of this.”

“It’s what we do,” I said.

“I was not in Denver,” Pritchard said.

His face flushed even more and his eyes were now bulging.

“I was through Denver on my way to here. I subsequently changed trains there, passing through there is all, but did not stay over. I was planning on actually stopping by, spend a few days there at my gambling establishment on my return.”

“To?” Virgil said.

“Saint Louis,” he said. “Where I live.”

“When were you last in Denver?”

“A few months ago, Marshal Cole.”

“What about Bill Black?” Virgil said. “When was he last in Denver?”

“He was there with me,” he said. “Same time.”

Pritchard pulled his watch from his vest pocket, checked the time. Then, with the support of his glossy brass-topped lion-head cane he slowly lifted himself from his chair.

“Now,” he said, “if you will excuse me, I have someone coming to collect me about now. If you need anything else from me you can find me at the Colcord Hotel, room twelve. But right now, I’m tired and unwilling to chew any more of this cud.”

“We’ll knock on your door,” Virgil said.