Ranger McIntyre: The Lawn Lake Murders: A Ranger McIntyre Mystery, #7

By James C. Work

Lawn Lake's remote location in Rocky Mountain National Park makes it an ideal place for two robbers to hide while cops search Colorado and Kansas for whoever stole $200,000 from the Denver Mint. When they are found dead, however, Ranger McIntyre needs to put away his fishing rod and go find the killers. And if possible, the money.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Oct 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645994978

Book preview

Background Notes

1. Timothy McIntyre, RMNP Ranger

My fictional character, Ranger Timothy McIntyre, piloted a military biplane in World War I. He’s back in uniform, this time as a district ranger in the newly created Rocky Mountain National Park. When he reported for work in 1920, practically every aspect of the new park’s administration was experimental and often controversial, from ranger training and enforcement of rules to management of the forests, watersheds, wildlife, and human visitors. The number of annual visitors, and the resultant problems, increased steadily as highways improved and automobiles became more commonplace. Every summer, Ranger McIntyre sees more and more people coming to the national park—and some of them aren’t there for the scenery.

2. Lawn Lake

The actual, original Lawn Lake was approximately the size of ten city blocks. Fed by snow melt, it sits in a natural basin at timberline in the Mummy Mountain range. In 1903, twelve years before Rocky Mountain National Park was established, a coalition of farmers from the Loveland area claimed the water rights. After building a road to the lake, they put up a dam of earth and rock to increase the lake basin capacity from sixteen to forty-eight acres. Then a lodge owner, taking advantage of the road and hoping to profit from the scenic beauty, built several satellite cabins and a stable at Lawn Lake.

The satellite cabin scheme was a flop. Few people wanted to drive six miles up a single-lane road, risking axles and oil pans on the rocks, to sleep in tiny one-room shacks heated by wood-burning cookstoves. Most of the cabins were soon abandoned; two were kept in repair for the use of the farmers’ coalition maintenance crews. As years went by, the cost and trouble of maintaining the dam increased; major repairs were carried out in the 1920s and 1930s, including raising the height of the dam. The outflow pipe and valve system was updated. But the road began to deteriorate, and deep winter snow limited access to both road and dam. The Farmers Ditch and Irrigation Company found more economical sources of irrigation water, and by 1950, the dam was abandoned.

A bit of local lore is the legend of the buried tractor of Lawn Lake. I first heard it as a teenage boy listening to old-timers in an Estes Park café. According to their story, a small crawler tractor was taken apart. Mules were used to haul the pieces to the lake, where it was reassembled. The crawler moved dirt and towed wagonloads of rock until the dam was completed. If we are to believe the legend, when the construction crew had no further use for the small tractor, they buried it there at the lake. It has never been found, however. As recently as 1960, hikers exploring the woods below the lake might still come across bits of chain, old rope, broken shovels, and rusted pickaxes but no sign of a crawler tractor.

3. The Denver Mint Robbery

Construction of the U.S. Mint in Denver began in 1897. The mint stamped its first coins in 1906. The imposing revival-style building on Colfax Avenue became a Denver landmark. Besides manufacturing coin currency, the imposing structure on Colfax Avenue functioned as a depository for paper money. Newly printed bills were kept there, as well as old bills removed from circulation and destined for incineration.

On the day of the robbery, a shipment of $200,000 in five-dollar bills was being moved either into or out of a Federal Reserve Bank truck parked at the mint’s main door. One account says the money was in two bags of new bills while another newspaper story reported fifty packages of $5 bills stacked on the sidewalk outside the mint. A news story written one year afterward describes it as used money in five metal boxes. The same news story claims that the robbers, who arrived in a black touring sedan, were either two men with sawed-off shotguns, three men, one of whom was fatally wounded by mint guards, or four masked desperados reportedly led by a woman whom the newspaper called the queen of a bandit gang. Another newspaper writer, in an unsigned story, came up with his own theory: the woman was actually a man dressed as a woman, and he reported that witnesses saw a total of seven bandits.

Twelve years later, a brief statement from the Denver police chief claimed that seven thieves had been identified—five men and two women—all of whom were deceased.

In one newspaper narrative, the robbers grabbed the money and got away without a shot being fired. In another story, they jumped from the touring car with shotguns blazing away. In a third version, the bandits were on the scene less than a minute and a half, and a mint guard was fatally wounded. One of the robbers was later found dead, his body left in a car stashed in a garage in Denver. In a different version, possibly written by the news reporter who theorized about one of the men being dressed as a woman, two gang members hid behind telegraph poles and peppered the mint doorway with shotgun blasts while their colleagues loaded the cash into the touring car.

Again, according to various conflicting news stories, a wild auto pursuit took place with police and mint guards chasing not one but two cars. The ensuing hunt went on for weeks and extended as far as Missouri. Police in Kansas pursued two cars full of men with guns, but the men turned out to be duck hunters. Roadblocks were set up, farm buildings searched, but to no avail. One robber, or a man assumed to be part of the robbery, was discovered a month after the raid on the mint. He was dead of a gunshot wound, sitting frozen in a black touring car stashed in a garage in Denver.

As for the money stolen by these two, four, five, or seven men and possibly two women, secret service agents raiding an abandoned hideout in Minneapolis recovered $80,000 of it. According to one reporter, who claimed to have heard it from the police, the $80,000 was given to a prominent Minneapolis attorney, but no one was charged with anything connected to either the money or the robbery.

Only three details seem certain. First, more than one person aided in the robbery of the mint and they were never apprehended; second, a man’s body was found in a Denver garage, in a car with bullet holes; and third, hidden somewhere within driving distance of Denver is $120,000 in old five-dollar bills, still waiting for thieves who are never coming back for it.

There is one more documented fact: the weather that year was unseasonably dry. Across the Colorado region, there would be no blizzards, no white Christmas, and no sledding until late January.

Chapter 1

Where’s McIntyre?

In Denver’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, two blocks from the East Colfax Avenue tramway line, Vi Coteau’s shiny yellow 1920s Marmon convertible coupe is parked at the curb. With oversized headlamps, swooping front fenders, and yellow-spoked wheels, it looks like an animal crouching there, ready to pounce. The building it is parked in front of is red brick, foursquare, two stories high. Four steps lead up from the sidewalk to the front porch, past a sign suspended on a post set in the lawn:

Pedersen Private Investigators,

Licensed and Bonded

The Pedersen offices occupy the first floor. The second floor is the apartment of Eleanor Pedersen, formerly one of the first female park rangers in Rocky Mountain National Park, now co-owner and co-operative of the detection agency. The basement apartment is occupied by Eddie Hazard. Sergeant Hazard served with distinction in WWI; after his discharge, he eked out an existence as a jazz saxophonist until the two ladies of Pedersen Investigators discovered his value as an undercover collector of valuable information.

The other lady, Violet Vi Coteau, co-owner and co-operative of Pedersen Investigators, does not live on the premises. During her earlier tenure with the federal Secret Service investigation department, later known as the FBI, Vi Coteau earned quite a respectable salary. Adding it to a generous inheritance, she was able to purchase not only her Marmon two-seater but a tidy art-nouveau apartment in the Capitol Hill district. She fleshed out her wardrobe with slinky evening dresses, ribboned shoes with classy heels, and two smartly tailored business suits. Pedersen Investigators provided a good reason, and the money, to go shopping for additional outfits. And hats. More hats.

On this particular winter day, Vi and Eleanor’s office door was opened by a woman of rather unusual appearance. A woman whose assignment for the lady detectives was even more unusual.

Is this the private eye place run by women? she inquired. Kind of strange, isn’t it? Being run by women, I mean. Private eyes?

Not really, Eleanor informed her. Pinkerton’s has employed a female branch of operatives for more than twenty years now. Have a chair.

I need you to find my… uh… my brother, the woman said, accepting the seat in front of Eleanor’s desk and shrugging an outrageously large fake fur wrap from her shoulders.

Tell us more, Eleanor suggested.

Vi Coteau perched on the edge of Eleanor’s desk, steno pad in hand.

I believe he is in Denver. Or possibly Boulder. He’s about my age, quite fit-looking, not particularly handsome. Kind of rough-looking, in fact, like a truck driver or roustabout. Average height. Oh, and he is probably dressed like you’d expect a working man to be: leather jacket, cloth cap, corduroy trousers. You know.

And what is his occupation? Vi asked. In other words, could we expect to find him working as a… laborer? Mason? Carpenter? Indoor work or outdoors? A trucker? We would need a photo, of course.

Photo? the woman said, starting to reach for a slightly too-large purse. I don’t have one.

No photo of your own brother?

Well, to be honest, he isn’t actually my brother. But he is a man I need to locate.

Where might he be working? What’s his trade?

I don’t know.

His name?

Oh. Percy. Percy Habbard. At least Habbard’s the name he gave us. Might be phony.

Anything else? Is he new to the Denver area? Does he have a car, maybe?

Oh, yes! I mean, no, he’s not from around here. Back east. Minneapolis, I think. But he has a red and black truck.

Do you know what type? Is it a Ford, maybe? A Model T?

No, bigger. More like the kind you’d haul stones with. More like a coal truck.

Reo? Dodge?

Reo sounds familiar. The lettering on the sides of the engine compartment says something about being speedy.

The woman left a telephone number and address along with the requisite advance fee, said she would call back in a few days, and teetered out of the office. At the sidewalk, she headed in the direction of the streetcar stop.

What do you think? Eleanor said. Do we return her fee? Or shall we actually try to find this ordinary faceless guy named Percy who may or may not have a trade and might own a truck?

Intriguing, isn’t it? Vi said. I mean, besides pretending not to know the make of the man’s truck. We probably should have asked more about herself. Like where she’s from, what she does for a living, why she needs to locate Percy. And who ‘us’ refers to.

I noticed the same thing, Eleanor replied. Her makeup and clothes were too flashy to be a housewife, but not quite flashy enough to be a streetwalker.

Agreed, Vi said, but I was thinking more of what she said. For instance, she didn’t talk like a woman in search of a lover who’s jilted her. She’s willing to pay to find him, she’s rather sure he’s in the area, but she doesn’t know much about him. Perhaps he has valuable information and she wants it. Maybe he owes her money.

Or maybe she’s been told about him. You know, she has a job she wants done and was told he’s the guy to do it.

Maybe, Vi said. I vote we keep her deposit. I’ll go snoop around the warehouse district on Larimer Street and Water Street. Maybe I’ll find a dock worker who remembers a guy driving a Reo Speedwagon. A guy looking for freight to haul or equipment to move. You don’t own an expensive vehicle unless you have a way to make a profit with it.

Really? Eleanor said. Let me see… it seems like I know a flashy dame who drives a money-guzzling overpowered two-seater convertible.

Touché, Vi said.

Talking French again, huh? Eleanor said.

Yes. The English translation is ‘shut up’.

*****

Vi Coteau went home to change into a less business-like outfit. The warehouse district by the river was no place for strappy heels and a slim skirt. When she returned to pick up Eddie Hazard at the office, Eleanor looked her associate up and down—twice—with a wry, amused smile. Vi’s costume now featured plain brown lace-up shoes with low heels, brown cotton stockings, a dress from the reduced price rack at J.C. Penney’s, topped with a cloth coat and sensible winter hat. Spectacles with round lenses set in plain dark rims finished the dowdy plain-Jane look. To round out the illusion of belonging to the working class, Vi also borrowed Eleanor’s Chevy. Her own bright yellow Marmon roadster wouldn’t fit the image.

Got your gun? Eleanor asked. You might have to fight the men off.

Gee, but you’re funny this morning, Vi said. How many cups of coffee?

Only four thus far. You’d better start. I can see Eddie out there on the sidewalk. He’s standing beside my car and he looks like he’s freezing.

Silly guy. I left the motor running and the heater going. He ought to sit in the car where it’s warm.

Eleanor’s wry smile returned.

Silly? In the Capitol Hill neighborhood? A Black man loitering in an unoccupied car? Not unless he wants a cop’s baton laid across his ear.

I see what you mean. ’Bye.

When Vi and Eddie got to Larimer Street, they didn’t even have to leave the warmth of the Chevy in order to pick up the trail of Percy Habbard. Vi stopped beside a man who was working on a truck engine. He knew nothing about a Reo Speedwagon, but a second man who was pushing a loaded handcart overheard the question and stopped to point along the street.

Down t’ Sixteenth Street, he said. There’s a warehouse, don’ know the name but y’ can’t miss it. It’s the one on the corner. It’s a long dock, lotta trucks. I don’t know nobody named Percy, but the red an’ black Speedwagon, she was there alright, haulin’ stuff fer two, three days. It was a couple weeks back. Them two fellas kept good and busy, movin’ boxes and crates. Sure like t’ have me one of them Reos. A man could earn good money with it.

Vi and Eddie found the warehouse but not the truck. They cruised the area twice, three times, dodging heavily loaded trucks and yielding right-of-way to burly men pulling freight wagons and pushing handcarts, but saw no sign of a shiny new Reo truck. However, as they came to Sixteenth again and turned down Market Street, Eddie pointed to a loading dock where a man was stacking crates of cabbages.

There’s a cat I know! He’s a stick man, he exclaimed. Shade the open parking spot over there an’ I’ll chin the dude. He pounds the jazz skins up by Five Points in the joint where I toot my ’phone nights. He’s a slicker and don’t miss much.

While Vi remained in the Marmon pondering whether a stick man on skins might be a jazz drummer in the establishment where Eddie Hazard often played the saxophone, Eddie mounted the dock and went through a series of shoulder-slapping, head-nodding, laughing pantomime gestures like two cousins at a family reunion. Vi saw the other man listening intently while Eddie spoke to him. The man led Eddie toward the building; the two of them paused in the shadow of a doorway where Vi couldn’t see what they were doing.

When Eddie returned to the car, he held a sheet of paper in his gloved fingers.

You and me, Miss Coteau, maybe we rolled a seven first time out, he said, handing it to her. Stick man, he digs the dude we’re sleuthin’, dug him quick. Only, glim this: there’s two dudes, not one. The one your woman customer wants was here with a side man, the both of ’em floggin’ for to rent out their Speedwagon. And look at this poster. There’s a half-dozen of these grab sheets tacked on the wall. Stick man says the Speedwagon boys saw ’em, grinned and lit up like Christmas. The tall one, he glommed onto a poster like this one and they split the scene.

Vi read the announcement.

"Special Opportunity!! Seeking men with vehicles for excavation and road repair. High altitude, only healthy men need apply. Union scale paid, bonus for trucks capable of hauling ½ ton rock or dirt. Phone Loveland 821 or STM 363 Wazee Denver."

STM? Vi said.

See The Man, Eddie translated. You don’t know STM? I ’speculate you never hoofed the Portland for a job, huh? But what’s this Loveland kick?

Portland? Vi replied with a raised eyebrow.

Concrete. Sidewalk?

Oh. Portland cement. Well, Loveland’s a town north of here. A little farm town. More of a railroad stop with a grain elevator. Let’s drive back to the office and make a phone call or two. Did you see all those crates of cabbages? I was wondering where they came from, in the middle of winter.

Stick man says Mexico. Came in on the a.m. choo-choo hooter.

Vi accelerated the Chevy up Market Street, expertly swerving to miss a truck backing away from a warehouse.

You know, Eddie, she said above the hum of the engine, when we have time, we ought to teach you English. It’s always good to have a second language.

*****

Their good luck at finding clues to the missing truck and driver came to an end when they pulled to the curb at 363 Wazee Street and discovered only an unattended hole-in-the-wall employment bureau. The sign on the door said CLOSED but offered no further helpful information, such as a telephone number.

Back at the office, Vi hung up her coat and hat and sat down at her desk to telephone Loveland 821. The man who answered confessed to the name of Goodacre. Upon being asked about the Men Wanted flier, Goodacre further admitted, almost apologetically, being the current secretary of the Farmer’s Irrigation Ditch and Reservoir Company. The conglomerate controlled several water sources, including Lawn Lake, inside Rocky Mountain National Park.

The timberline altitude meant that, in normal years, snow could begin falling as early as September, stalling any repair work until the spring thaw. However, this particular winter turned out unusually mild and dry. The ditch company managed to employ a half-dozen men willing to live in the old cabins. Goodacre failed to tell Coteau about four recruits who resigned because they couldn’t cope with the high altitude and the labor. Hauling rock and dirt to raise the level of the dam was strenuous work. And yes, two men with a nearly new Reo truck were hired. They filled out application forms. Could the lady hold the line a minute?

He returned to the phone with two names.

Bingo, Vi said. Thank you very much. And for the record, how would one go about getting to Lawn Lake?

Vi thanked Goodacre, wished him good weather and success with his dam project, then dialed the operator.

Long distance? she said. Rocky Mountain National Park, please, the Fall River Ranger Station. Thank you.

While waiting for the call to be put through by the operator, Vi idly unsnarled the telephone cord and thought about having a nicer photograph of the ranger, a nicely framed one to set on her desk. With her penchant for order and neatness, it would have to be a professional photograph rather than a Kodak snapshot. Could she haul McIntyre into a photographer’s studio and persuade him to sit still for a portrait? The idea was nearly… unimaginable. But she would love a photo. Those deep, dark eyes looking out of the picture as his voice answered the phone…

Fall River Station. Ranger Dobbin speaking.

The name was as unfamiliar as the male voice. Vi was expecting McIntyre to pick up the receiver or, if he was not there, perhaps Jamie Ogg, his assistant.

Pardon me? she said.

Fall River Station. What can I do for you?

Is Ranger McIntyre there? Vi asked. She felt like a high school girl speaking with her boyfriend’s father.

No. Who’s calling?

This is Vi Coteau. In Denver. Pedersen Private Investigators. May I speak with Ranger McIntyre?

What do you want him for?

It’s my business, I believe, she said. Please put him on.

Let me speak with your supervisor, snapped the gruff voice, assuming he was speaking with a secretary.

I am the supervisor. Co-owner of the agency. I’m not a secretary. Now, let me speak with McIntyre.

What do you want with him? the man persisted. He’s on duty. And this is a government telephone. What does he want with a detective agency? If it’s a personal call, you’ll need to phone back after hours. I’ll give you a number where he might be reached after hours. It’s a village barber shop, but they can call him to the phone. Don’t phone there until after six p.m. Do you have a pencil ready?

Vi’s immaculate eyebrows arched into a perplexed frown. She and McIntyre did not share every tiny detail of their lives with each other, but together, they had solved crimes, gone camping in the high mountains, shared romantic picnics, and generally created an easy, open friendship, occasionally approaching moments of what might be called passion. One evening in his comfortable, quiet cabin beside the river, the two of them almost… nearly… except they were interrupted. And now he had moved from the Fall River station? Without letting her know? He was living in the tiny apartment at Phylo Book’s barber shop without mentioning it to her.

Are you there? asked the man with the gruff voice. What was his name? Dobbin? You want this number, or don’t you?

No, she snapped. But I think I’ve got your number. I’ve decided to come up there in person. And my first stop is going to be Supervisor Nicholson’s office to report a rude ranger.

You’ll probably find McIntyre there. Goodbye.

Vi tapped the cradle to connect with the operator.

Let’s try again, she told the woman. Long distance, person-to-person this time. Timothy McIntyre, Supervisor’s Office, Rocky Mountain National Park. I don’t have the number. If the secretary who answers says he isn’t there, please ask her where I can reach him. Her name is Dottie.

One moment, please, while I try the village operator.

Vi and Dottie were well acquainted and Dottie would tell her where he was. If Ranger McIntyre was up the hill at the Pioneer Inn consuming one of his legendary two-plate breakfasts instead of working, it might mean he had been laid off and was no longer on duty. Vi would be tempted