Free Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887)

from sight.
    All that talk really got Waltz to thinking something that he didn’t want to think: Maybe Weiser was right about being in a hurry to get their gold. This was a rush, and if they wanted their share of it, they had to get moving.
    Waltz finished his beer and went out, pausing on the steps to clear his head of smoke and noise. As he stood looking around, he saw a man step out of the fanciest hotel on the street, stand on its veranda, and light a cigar. The man was Jake Weiser dressed up in a new shirt. What the hell was he up to?
    Waltz plunged into the milling crowd, so intent on reaching Weiser he failed to notice a pair of thugs behind him until he felt a hand in his pocket. Waltz reacted by grabbing the pickpocket’s arm, throwing him to the ground, and sitting on his back.
    Unfortunately for Waltz, the pickpocket had friends that included Officer Timothy O’Shaughnessy, the policeman on the beat. Waltz’s broken English was only worsened by his anger and temper, causing his explanation to tumble out in incomprehensible mumbo jumbo. Officer O’Shaughnessy handcuffed Waltz, marched him to the station, and booked him.
    Waltz desperately screamed for Weiser as he was being dragged off, but Weiser was utterly oblivious to Waltz’s predicament. He had more important things on his mind, like the fashionable suits he would wear as a partner in the banking business when he got his gold.
    An hour in a jail cell was enough for Waltz to regain his composure and explain his situation to the officer on duty, but his request to send for Weiser was met with a deaf ear until he produced a small gold nugget from his pocket. Pocketing Waltz’s nugget, the policeman sent for a messenger, a freckle-faced boy with flaming red hair and a lopsided grin who stuck his head in the door and said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
    Waltz gave this boy his last nugget and sent him to find Weiser. Regrettably for Waltz, his messenger didn’t get any farther than the nearest tavern.
    Unaware Waltz had seen him on the veranda of the California Exchange hotel, Weiser returned to their shabby hotel and went up to their room, where he took off his new shirt, folded it neatly, and concealed it in his saddlebag before putting on his old shirt. What his partner didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
    Returning to the lobby Weiser approached the front desk, where a slovenly clerk with grease spots on his vest was turning the pages of the Police Gazette and leering at photographs of scantily clad strippers. Weiser’s thin lips tightened with distaste as he rang the bell. The clerk looked up from his magazine and mumbled, “Whaddya want?”
    “Did my partner leave a message for me?” Weiser asked.
    “No,” the clerk replied, and went back to reading his magazine.
    Weiser shrugged and went back to their room, content to have the tiny room to himself for a while.
    An hour later, Gideon Roberts knocked on the door, looking for Waltz.
    “I haven’t seen him,” Weiser replied.
    “Do you know where he went?” Roberts asked.
    “No,” Weiser said carelessly.
    Surprised at Weiser’s lack of concern, Roberts looked at his watch and said, “It’s ten o’clock. That’s pretty late for him to be walking around in a strange city.”
    “Waltz is a grown man,” Weiser snapped. “He can take care of himself.”
    Not bothering to hide his disapproval, Roberts said sharply, “I’m surprised that a man as smart as you wouldn’t understand that a man like Waltz, whose English is limited, could get lost and not be able to find his way back here. San Francisco is a rough town, especially for an immigrant like Waltz.”
    Weiser returned Roberts’s scowl and said, “You’re the leader of our little group. If you’re so concerned about Waltz’s welfare, why ain’t you out looking for him?”
    “He’s your partner,” Roberts responded, indignant at Weiser’s indifference. “If Waltz is in trouble, he’s your responsibility.”
    Weiser