KMC Forums - Case of the Shared Claim

It was an average afternoon in late November, and I had seated myself at a table in the Lucky Horseshoe. The Lucky Horseshoe was the local bar, where the weary gold miners would blow what little money they had made from their gold claims. That, or they came to see me.

A tall, burly man approached my table, holding a pint of whisky in one hand, a small sack of gold dust in the other. Curly red hair poked out from under a beret. His trim beard was also a tiny bit curly. Underneath the mud splattered on him, his clothes were green. He spoke up, his voice loud and his Irish brogue very obvious. �Are you Harvey Griswold, the local detective?�

�That I am,� I replied. �And you are?�

�Patrick Sullivan.� The Irishman set down his gold and whisky, then shook my hand. �I require your services. I heard of your skills as a detective from Francois Montague.�

I took my pipe from my mouth. �Ah yes, I know Francois. I located his son after a kidnapping. He was the man you won that beret from, yes?�

�Indeed.� Patrick sat down across the way from me. �I require your services now. Me brother has been killed.�

�Has he now? Tell me your story...� I always listened to the life story of a client, whether it was for clues of the recent crime, or to just hear the man out.

So Patrick began to tell me his tale. He had been living in the outskirts of Dublin, farming potatoes as a living. His grandfather had been a renowned potato farmer and chef, and the Sullivan family had been quite wealthy. Then, in 1845, the potato blight struck Ireland, leaving the Irish without a sufficient food source. The Sullivan's struggled to make a living by building roads for the British, but after Patrick�s parents and younger brother died from malnutrition, he and his older brother Angus decided to move to America. Now, four years after the famine began, the Sullivan brothers had struck it rich.

�That�s when the trouble started. Our gear kept disappearing, and sometimes some of our gold. We kept on, using our newfound wealth to buy more equipment. Then my brother turned up dead, shot through the chest six times with a Colt revolver.

�Let�s see what I can solve just by sitting here, Patrick...� I sat in thought for a moment. �You say he was killed by a Colt revolver. How do you know that?�

�Uh...� Patrick faltered. I suspected he would. You can only tell what kind of gun it is if there are still bullets inside the victim. You would have to dig them out of the broken flesh and have a specialist inspect the bullet itself. Otherwise, the bullets had gone through and were scattered in the dirt or rock or trees. But Patrick resumed. �That�s what my witness and fellow gold miner Richard Thornton said the murderer used.�

�A witness? When did Mr. Thornton see the murderer?� I inquired, rubbing my chin.

�Tuesday night, around three in the morning,� Patrick replied, looking about nervously.

I sat in thought for a moment. �Where is the body now?�

�I put my brother in his sleeping bag and left him there under Mr. Thornton�s watch.�

�Then let us go to him.�

We walked out of the Lucky Horseshoe, Patrick leading the way. I quietly observed that he had a bulge in the right side of his overalls. Most likely it was a pistol that he was trying to conceal, but he had done a horrible job of doing so. I had my own revolver pistol at my side in case he decided to use his for something objectionable.

We arrived at Patrick�s gold claim after walking past the hungry miners and immigrants that had lined up at a soup kitchen. It was up against a hill of snow and rock. The lower rocks had been chiseled away to reveal a hole.

�This is where we�ve been a gettin� our gold!� Patrick declared. Grabbing his pickaxe, he hacked away at the rock for a few moments and then reached into the hole. A large nugget of gold sat snuggly in his hand. �Ain�t that a pretty sight...�

�Indeed...� But my mind was not on his endless supply of gold. �Where is your brother�s body?�

�Funny...I don� see it,� Patrick said, looking around. �I told Richard to stand watch. He must have gone off. Maybe the murderer came back to hide the body when no one was watching. After all, there don�t seem to be no one around here.�

�Right...� I pulled my fur coat around me tighter. A draft began to blow through the area. �My condolences about your brother. When Mr. Thornton returns, please alert me.� I noticed Patrick looking off into the woods. �I will be back at the Lucky Horseshoe. I rarely am elsewhere.�

�Oh, I will Mr. Griswold,� Patrick curtly promised.

I took my leave and started to head back for the Lucky Horseshoe. A man bumped into me on the way out of the claim. He had a shaggy appearance, for his clothing was tattered and his hat had so many holes I could have sworn he had been shot at. Graying hair hung over his face. A Third Model Dragoon revolver with an attachable stock was slung over his back, and two more revolvers were pushed into their holsters. This withered old man seemed to be a gunslinger of sorts.

I continued on my way, but then I took my action. I doubled back, sneaking about though the trees. My plan was to eavesdrop on Patrick Sullivan and the elderly gunslinger. The thin snow crunched under my stiff boots too loudly, so I kept to the muddy ground to quiet my footfalls. Finally, I took shelter behind a tree. Patrick and gunslinger were talking with hushed voices.

�So, Richard, where did you put the body?� Patrick questioned. His Irish brogue had vanished. But I recognized his voice. �Detective Harvey is suspicious, I can tell. He seems to have figured out everything just from listening to me talk!�

�Calm down, I tossed good ole Angus into the lake. He�ll be driftin� under the ice by now,� the man that was Richard assured. �No one will ever find him if they don�t know he�s there.�

That was all the evidence I needed. I burst from cover, taking advantage of my ability to draw a pistol faster than anyone in the United States. Richard turned around to find that he had a .31 caliber pocket pistol held to his cheek. My name was engraved on it.

�Hello boys. It seems you have done your brother a disservice, Mr. Sullivan. Or should I say Mr. Montague?� For Patrick Sullivan was not who he seemed to be. His curly red locks were actually part of a wig. The beret had given him away too. As well as the mention of his own name when he confronted me. I had indeed helped him find his kin, but then he tried to rob a bank with the help of his son. �Will you kindly drop your weapons Mr. Thornton?�

�But you are one man against two,� Mr. Thornton snarled.

�I think not. I knew Montague here was lying from the start when he told me his name. My friend and ally, Patrick Sullivan, is my partner in rooting out scum like you. Patrick, kindly show yourself to these poor misguided souls.�

Obeying my command, the real Patrick Sullivan moved out from behind a tree, toting a Winchester rifle. Montague�s disguise had been convincing, for the real Patrick Sullivan looked just like Montague had disguised himself. I realized that maybe Montague did not know that I knew Mr. Sullivan.

�Now, kindly toss away your guns, Mr. Thornton,� Patrick ordered with a grin. �You too Montague.�

�So, how did you know there had been foul play?� Montague barked.

�I suspected something fishy from the start, as you were told. An Irishman wearing a beret, an Irishman with the same name and profile as my partner, a man with a missing brother, it had me very skeptical. So, likewise, I doubled back when Richard Thornton approached you, and listened in on your conversation.�

Montague and Thornton both gave me a chilling glare as I put manacles around their hands tightly. I looked to the Frenchman, who was still disguised. I reached up and pulled off his wig as I was talking to him, greasy brown hair replacing the curled red locks. �As to your motive, you did not want to share the gold claim with two other people, so killed off your brother. Patrick, take these guilty men away!�

Just a few days later, the two men where locked away, confined to a small stone room with iron bars. They had been found guilty, obviously, and were likely to be swinging in the gallows soon enough.

And since they had left a massive gold claim untended, it was awarded to me for solving the murder of Angus Montague...