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

already suspected Roberts needed Waltz’s help as a prospector, and this show of concern confirmed it in Weiser’s mind. But it also reminded Weiser that he needed Waltz to secure his own future. With an outward show of contrition and just a hint of sarcasm, Weiser said, “You’re right, Roberts. I’ll go right now an’ save Waltz from the dangers of the big, bad city.”
    Weiser began his search for Waltz at the corner newsstand. “I’m looking for my partner,” he said. “He’s a big man with a German accent. Have you seen him?”
    The news vendor had been on duty all day. He was hungry and his feet hurt. “Nah, I ain’t seen him,” was his brusque reply.
    Weiser displayed a small piece of gold in his palm briefly, then turned as if to go.
    “Wait a minute, mister,” the vendor said quickly. “I might of seen your partner. He was asking about seeing the sights. I told him Telegraph Hill is the place to go an’ he started off in that direction.”
    Weiser paid the vendor, who pocketed the nugget and said, as an afterthought, “But it’s pretty late for sightseeing. Your friend is probably having a time for hisself over at Portsmouth Place. That’s where the action is this time of night.”
    Meanwhile, back at the city jail, Waltz was growing impatient. From his cell he could see the desk sergeant reading a newspaper and taking occasional sips from a flask he kept in his drawer. A fly buzzed in, circled the cell, found nothing of interest, and departed.
    As the hours passed, Waltz realized he still needed Weiser’s English-language skills. He also remembered Weiser’s look of satisfaction as he had stood on the steps of that fancy hotel, and realized he might be looking to desert his partner, take his share of the gold, and live a comfy life in San Francisco. “That ungrateful bastard,” he thought bitterly, his anger rising. “I wouldn’t put it past him to go off an’ leave me.”
    Stretched out on the lumpy cot in his cell, Waltz drifted off to sleep. He was awakened by the sound of Weiser talking to the officer on duty. “I’m looking for Jacob Waltz. He’s a member of my prospecting party.”
    The policeman’s brow furrowed as he said, “We’re holding a Jacob Waltz. But I don’t think he’s the man you’re looking for, sir. The man we’re holding is a roughneck who don’t speak no English.”
    The corners of Weiser’s lips curved up as he said, “On the contrary, Officer, he may well be my man. What are the charges?”
    The policeman picked up the top sheet on his stack of papers and read, “Jacob Waltz viciously attacked Timothy O’Leary, twisted his arm behind his back, threw him to the sidewalk, and sat on his back. When Officer O’Shaughnessy arrived on the scene, Waltz waved his arms like a mad man and shouted gibberish. Timothy’s brother Sean O’Leary helped subdue Waltz and bring him in.” When Weiser, didn’t comment, the policeman added, “I wasn’t on duty when they brought Waltz in, an’ all I know is what’s on this report. But he ain’t given me any trouble so far.”
    “Thank you, Officer,” Weiser said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a small gold nugget that he set on the desk. “Is it possible for me to see Mr. Waltz? I’d like to hear his side of the story.”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Weiser,” the policeman said, picking up the nugget and taking a ring of keys from his desk drawer.
    Weiser followed the policeman to Waltz’s cell, but instead of the grateful reception Weiser expected, Waltz scowled and snapped, “It’s about time you showed up.”
    Shocked by the sharpness in Waltz’s tone and unaware of the messenger he’d sent, Weiser stared at him and said, “Look here, Waltz, I’ve been scouring the city for you all evening. If this is all the thanks I get, maybe I should leave. ”
    Unaware the freckle-faced messenger had failed to deliver his message, Waltz glared at Weiser and in a low tone more menacing than a shout said, “Hold