Longarm 245: Longarm and the Vanishing Virgin Read Online Free

and Longarm, and Vail swore him to secrecy. Longarm took a closed cab to Canady’s mansion that evening, and he kept his snuff-brown Stetson pulled down low over his face as he got out, paid off the driver, and walked through the open gate of the estate.
    Canady had bragged on his guards, but Longarm didn’t see any of them around tonight. He had only gone a few paces along the gravel drive, however, when a voice sang out from the shadows underneath the trees that dotted the yard.
    â€œJust hold it right there, mister,” it said in rough tones that carried the accent of County Cork. “There be three guns pointin’ at ye. Who are ye, and what’s yer business here?”
    â€œMr. Canady’s expecting me,” Longarm said. “My name’s Long.”
    â€œAye, that he is. Have ye proof yer who ye say ye are?”
    Longarm was carrying his badge and bona fides in their usual leather folder inside his coat, but he hesitated to take them out and display them. He didn’t know if the guards were aware that Canady had gone to the Justice Department for help in this matter.
    â€œMy word’s good,” he said bluntly. “Just tell Mr. Canady I’m here.”
    â€œWe’ll do more than that.” A bulky figure stepped out of the shadows. The man was tall and wide and wore a derby hat. He gestured with the shotgun he held in blunt-fingered hands and said, “March on up there. We’ll let Mr. Canady see ye for his ownself. But I’m warnin’ ye ... try anythin’ funny, and I’ll use this scattergun to scatter yer innards from here t’ Killarney.”
    Longarm smiled tightly. He had no doubt that this big Irishman meant what he said.
    With the guard at his back, Longarm marched on up the drive toward the brightly lit house. It was a massive pile of stone, three stories high, built on a huge lot in the most exclusive neighborhood in Denver. Everybody who lived on this street was either a silver king, a railroad tycoon, a cattle baron, or some other sort of magnate. With the one exception, Longarm reminded himself, of the woman who owned the fanciest, most expensive whorehouse in Denver. She lived in this district too, even though the source of her wealth was down on Colfax Avenue.
    As they drew nearer to the house, Longarm glanced back at the man behind him. The guard was only an inch or so shorter than Longarm, and his shoulders were a bit broader. His chest was like a barrel. The growing light revealed a face that had seen more than its share of hard knocks. The features were scarred and lumpy, and the prominent nose had been broken more than once. More like a dozen times, Longarm judged.
    The guard had Longarm stand to one side of the front doors while he pulled a bell cord. One of the double doors opened a moment later, and the guard said in his rough voice, “A gent here t’ see Mr. Canady. Says he’s expected.”
    A black man with a bald pate and a tonsure of white hair around his ears stepped out of the house. He was wearing a sober black suit and was most likely the butler, Longarm decided. He looked Longarm up and down and then said, “Indeed. Very well, O’Shaughnessy. You may return to your post now.” The butler’s accent was British.
    â€œFiggered I’d take him to the boss, I did,” the guard said belligerently. “What if he ain’t who he says he is? What if he tries t’ cause trouble?”
    â€œThen I shall deal with him.” The butler’s voice was cold and clearly hostile toward O’Shaughnessy.
    Longarm was anxious to get inside and get started on the job that had brought him here. It had rankled bad enough just waiting all day to visit Canady’s estate. With every minute that passed, the missing Nora could be getting farther away.
    â€œListen, you two,” he said. “Settle your grudge later. I’ve got important business with Canady, and I intend to see