Blade 12: The Last Act

By Matt Chisholm

Mayhem, murder and a maverick sheriff in what was surely the craziest and wildest plot Blade ever got mixed up in. Lawmen and outlaws want his hide as he moves in the shadow of the hangman's noose.
JOE BLADE: an unwilling killer, hunted and betrayed
LAFE OLAFSON: sheriff, Blade's boyhood friend. He hunted Blade as ruthlessly as he would a mad dog.
EARL WANNAKER: multi-millionaire and girl-stealer. A man of no morals and less conscience.
KID WANNAKER: his wild son. Crazy as his father. He thought Blade was too old and too slow.
NELL: an outlaw's woman who stood between Blade and a cut throat
LIAM SHANDY: mad Irish king of the Border smugglers
HOLLY GOODCHILD: who always smiled and carried death wherever he went.
A violent and fast-moving climax to Joe Blade's cyclonic career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463958803

Matt Chisholm

Peter Christopher Watts was born in London, England in 1919 and died on Nov. 30, 1983. He was educated in art schools in England, then served with the British Amy in Burma from 1940 to 1946.Peter Watts, the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of "Matt Chisholm" and "Cy James". He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the "McAllister" series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the "Storm" series. And used the Cy James name for his "Spur" series.Under his own name, Peter Watts wrote Out of Yesterday, The Long Night Through, and Scream and Shout. He wrote both fiction and nonfiction books, including the very useful nonfiction reference work, A Dictionary of the Old West (Knopf, 1977).

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The Home of Great Western Fiction!

Mayhem, murder and a maverick sheriff in what was surely the craziest and wildest plot Blade ever got mixed up in. Lawmen and outlaws want his hide as he moves in the shadow of the hangman’s noose.

JOE BLADE – an unwilling killer, hunted and betrayed

LAFE OLAFSON – sheriff, Blade’s boyhood friend. He hunted Blade as ruthlessly as he would a mad dog.

EARL WANNAKER – multi-millionaire and girl-stealer. A man of no morals and less conscience.

KID WANNAKER – his wild son. Crazy as his father. He thought Blade was too old and too slow

NELL – an outlaw’s woman who stood between Blade and a cut throat

LIAM SHANDY – mad Irish king of the Border smugglers

HOLLY GOODCHILD – who always smiled and carried death wherever he went.

A violent and fast-moving climax to Joe Blade’s cyclonic career.

BLADE 12: THE LAST ACT

By Matt Chisholm

First published by Hamlyn Books in 1981

Copyright © 1981, 2019 by Matt Chisholm

First Digital Edition: November 2019

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Cover Art by Edward Martin

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

Chapter One

It was about the saddest thing that ever happened to Joe Blade.

He blamed himself for it – all of it. Notwithstanding that the boy came hunting trouble and that the kid held life and death in his hands. Blade always reckoned he should have been able to find a way out of the situation. It seemed to him that he had a lifetime of experience behind him and that he should have known how to talk his way out of that kind of thing. The kid was green, a mere pilgrim with plenty of guts and too much ambition.

It was the kid’s ambition which was his undoing. And Blade’s too for that matter.

Blade was working on the Armitage case at the time. Maybe you don’t remember Armitage. Maybe you never heard of him. But the newspapers were full of him at the time. He was, after all, one of the richest men in the United States – which, I think you will agree, was saying something. Armitage just about owned everything in sight – or so it seemed. He was the kind of man who could afford Blade’s high fees and not notice the difference.

Blade never did get to meet Armitage. The great man did not deal with anything so trivial as a private investigator like Blade. He had secretaries and vice-presidents to carry out chores of that kind.

A month before, Blade had been summoned to Chicago and had been interviewed by one of the rich man’s minions; a fellow in a beautiful suit and a silk cravat for a neck-tie. This smooth city number informed him that he had been recommended by William K. Ackerman. Blade remembered him. Another millionaire who had lost some jewels. Blade had found them in a small town in California hanging from the neck and wrists of a cat-house madam.

Armitage had not lost any jewels. He had merely misplaced a daughter. Or so the smooth minion informed Blade. A very beautiful girl, said the man, upon whom Mr. Armitage placed great store. And why should he not? Let Mr. Blade cast his glance over these features and see if he did not … Mr. Blade glanced at the photograph and the glance at once became a detailed inspection. Miss Armitage was the kind of young lady whose beauty could withstand the closest and most prolonged inspections. The minion thought apparently that Blade’s inspection was both too long and too close and took the picture from him. Blade said: ‘Why me and not Pinkerton?’

The minion blinked and said: ‘I … er …’ He said it more than once.

Blade said: ‘Pinkerton refused the case. Is that it?’

The minion twiddled his legs in embarrassment. ‘Mr. Blade, I’m sure ... ah ... the Pinkertons did work a short while for Mr. Armitage.’

‘On this case?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Well,’ said Blade, ‘I never heard of anybody firing the Pinkertons, so the Pinkertons must have turned the case down.’

The minion studied first the ceiling and then the toe of his left shoe. ‘I assure you, Mr. Blade ... ah ... let us say that Mr. Armitage and the Pinkertons did not see eye-to-eye. The agency handed their findings over to Mr. Armitage and he has entrusted them to me. They are, of course, available if you wish to consult them.’

Blade thought about it all to himself. The pay was good and he knew that men like Armitage always got their pound of flesh. If he was paid it, he would more than earn it. In a month’s time, he would be marrying Charity Clayton. He needed the money. Whether he liked the case or not, he guessed he would have to take it.

‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘I’ll call around tomorrow to sign contracts. Does that suit you?’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. ‘You’ll find there the kind of clauses I like to see in a contract. If any of them stick in your craw, let me know and we’ll dicker over them.’

‘I … ah …’ said the minion. ‘You see, Mr. Blade . . .’

‘You don’t want a contract?’ The minion looked relieved that Blade had cottoned to the truth so quickly.

He beamed – ‘How understanding, sir—’

Blade didn’t like the sound of it. Men didn’t want to sign contracts when there was something fishy afoot. No honest man shied at a sound contract. Nobody in Blade’s position should work without one. It did away with ill feeling at the end of a deal. Both parties knew where they stood.

Blade said: ‘No contract, huh? So there’s a snag. What is it?’

It was plain to see from the minion’s face that he was in an area which he regarded as a trap.

‘This is a delicate matter,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re accustomed to dealing with delicate matters, Blade.’ The use of the unadorned surname somehow put them on a manly man-to-man basis.

‘Sure,’ said Blade. ‘Why’s this so delicate? Did Armitage lose his daughter under delicate circumstances?’

‘Mr. Blade, Mr. Armitage’s daughter is a delicate subject in itself.’

Blade thought some more and said: ‘So far we’ve only mentioned the daughter and the father. How about the girl’s mother?’

The minion went pink.

‘The girl’s mother,’ he said, ‘is not Mrs. Armitage. Now do you … ?’

‘You mean the girl’s illegitimate?’

‘Let us say that the young lady is not recognized. Hence the need for the utmost discretion.’

So that was more or less where they left it. Blade went back to his hotel and studied the Pinkerton papers. There were quite a number of them and they showed that the Pinkertons had withdrawn from the enquiry no longer than three weeks before. So the trail was not ice-cold. Blade was pretty sure that Armitage’s people had taken anything out of the Pinks’ notes that they would not want folks to know about, but Blade nevertheless went through them with enormous care in case he could pick up something vital that they had missed.

The girl had gone missing some two months back from an apartment in a middle-class area here in Chicago. The long and short of the rest of the report was the Pinks had traced her to of all places a small town in Arizona. So that was why Armitage had picked on Blade. Joe Blade knew that country like the back of his hand. His mother’s people, the Espadas, had property all over there. Blade had family connections among the Anglos and the Mexicans there. He could hear talk no outsider would ever get to hear. A Pink agent might stick out like a sore thumb; Joe Blade would blend with the landscape.

He lit his pipe and filled the small hotel room with foul smoke. Then he went through the report again. It was not what was in it that was remarkable, but what had been left out.

The following day, he went to look at the girl’s apartment building. There he learned that the girl had lived on her own. He found a charming little widow on the fourth floor who was pleasantly flattered at Blade’s interest in her. They drank coffee together and they talked. A little later, daringly, they drank something a little stronger than coffee and the charming little widow talked and talked. She loved to talk. Blade plainly loved to listen. The little widow considered that Blade was one of the most brilliant conversationalists she had ever met. She also revealed the fact that the young lady in question had lived a very quiet life and had had few visitors. The most consistent was a middle-aged man who came almost regularly once a week. The little widow looked arch. She did not admire tittle-tattle, you must understand, but really it looked as if the young lady were no better than she should have been, if Mr. Blade saw what she meant.

It wasn’t easy getting away from the little widow, but eventually Blade managed it. He arrived back at his hotel an intrigued man. He was also a suspicious man. He wondered what would happen if he refused the commission at this stage. His curiosity was so great that he could not resist sending the Pinkerton report back to Armitage’s minion with a note to say that with regret he would have to decline the commission. But not before he had committed the whole report to memory.

He heard nothing more on the matter that day, but, during the night, he was awoken to find the light burning in his room and two strangers, one on either side of his bed, who apparently urgently wanted conversation with him.

One was short and stout with a broken nose, the other was tall and stout with a broken nose. Throughout the interview the little man spoke not a word. Though the big man did all the talking, he did not once raise his voice above a discreet pianissimo.

‘Forgive our intrusion, Mr. Blade,’ he said. ‘You will appreciate our need for unobtrusive movement, I’m sure. We are in the employ of a certain party who shall remain unnamed. You are an intelligent man and I’m sure there’ll be no need for me to explain or elaborate further. I am instructed to inform you that your refusal of a certain commission today is not acceptable to our party. You will therefore continue as if you did not send that note. You are now in possession of information which you will treat with the utmost confidence.’

Blade went to speak, but the man held up a beautifully manicured hand and said: ‘Not a word is necessary on your part. I and my colleague do not labor under the necessity of listening to a single syllable. We are here merely to impart information. I shall detain you from your sleep for no more than a minute or so. The remainder of my message is that if you fail our respected employer in any degree, if you break your unspoken oath of confidentiality or if you again refuse to continue with the commission, we shall break a number of bones in your body in the first resort. In the final resort we should, of course, make your condition terminal.’

Blade lay there wondering what he would have done had not the smaller of the two men been pointing a revolver at his heart throughout this short address. He had to admit that he would probably have done nothing. At a guess, the big man on his own could have beaten Blade to pulp with one hand and without getting short of breath.

The two men walked from the room on silent feet and Blade was left to do as he willed for the remainder of the night.

Blade thought: That goes some part of the way towards satisfying my curiosity. If I’m being forced to do the job, I might as well get paid for it. Well paid for it. First thing in the morning, I shall visit the minion for my advance fee of five hundred dollars.

Chapter Two

The next step in this rather curious story was into the small town of Crewsville, Arizona.

Blade went there because this was where the Pinkerton report said that the girl he was looking for had been seen last. Blade came in on the noon train, booked in at the Miller House on Main and generally felt that a couple of days, three at the outside, would see this case wrapped up.

This neck of the woods was the stamping ground of his ancient Mexican maternal uncle, Don Sebastian Espada. The don had eyes and ears everywhere. If a beautiful, golden-haired Anglo girl had come into the country, Don Sebastian would have heard about it. If he had not, he could pretty soon remedy the omission. If by some dark miracle the don failed to come up with something useful, then Lafe Olafson, the sheriff, would know. Lafe had been Huck Finn to Blade’s Tom Sawyer around Crewsville more years ago than either of them cared to remember.

The owner of the hotel was new in town. His name was William Tunbridge and he had ambitions. But they were nothing beside his wife’s. But more of those later. They ran a comfortable clean house and fought an unremitting fight against Arizona dust and cowboys who wore their boots in bed.

Blade was no sooner installed in the best room in the house than Lafe Olafson the sheriff