Oscar winced again.

"You started the trip in New York?"

"That's correct, yes. New York."

"When was that?"

"January."

"When you get to San Francisco?"

"Toward the end of the month. I don't have the exact date. I'm afraid I'm not much good with dates. Vail would know."

"You were in El Paso, Texas, on February twenty-fourth."

Oscar nodded. "Very likely."

"And Leavenworth, Kansas, on March the first."

"If you say so."

"If you went as far east as Leavenworth, how come you came back this way afterwards?"

"An excellent question, one that I've frequently asked Mr. Vail myself. It has to do, apparently, with the availability of the lecture halls."

Grigsby nodded. "Okay. Vail. Where's he stayin'?"

"Where's Vail stayin'?"

"Here. In the hotel."

"Which room?"

"203."

Grigsby nodded. "Who else?"

"Colonel von Hesse. Wolfgang von Hesse. A retired Prussian military officer. It would be absolutely impossible for him to have done this."

Grigsby nodded, his face empty. "How long's he been with the trip?"

"Since San Francisco."

"How come he's travelin' with you?"

"He's acting as escort to Countess de la Mole."

"Who?"

"Countess Mathilde de la Mole. From France."

"She joined up with you in San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

"She introduced herself. She knows some people I know in London. She was traveling across the country and asked if she might join the tour."

"Where they stayin'?"

"Here in the hotel. We're all staying here."

"Room number?"

"She's in room 211. He's in room 210."

Grigsby nodded. "Who else?"

"O'Conner. David O'Conner. A reporter for the New York Sun."

"Joined up in New York?"

"San Francisco. He's covering the tour for his newspaper."

"Room number?"

"207, I believe."

"Who else?"

"Wilbur Rudd.i.c.k. A poet from San Francisco. But really, the idea of young Rudd.i.c.k doing anything so dreadful is completely absurd."

Grigsby nodded. "Room number."

Oscar sighed, resigned. "Room 208."

"Who else?"

"No one."

"You said a valet. A servant."

"Henry? But Henry's been with me since New York. Henry Villiers. He's a dear, sweet man."

Grigsby nodded. "Which room?"

"214. But really, Marshal-"

"That it? n.o.body else?"

Oscar sat back. "No one else."

Grigsby nodded. "You givin' another talk tonight?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we go to Manitou Springs. I give a lecture at some private mansion there."

"The Bell mansion?"

"Yes. And from there, the next day, we go on to Leadville."

"Train or stage?"

"Pardon?"

"To Manitou Springs. You takin' the train or the stage coach?"

"The train."

"Noon train?"

"Yes."

Grigsby nodded. "You got a list of the places where you gave talks? Since you started?"

"Why? Oh. Of course." He frowned. "To determine whether there were any more of these killings. No, I haven't. Vail does. I can obtain it from him, if you like."

Grigsby made a slight negative motion with his head. "Get it myself."

"You'll be talking to these people? All of them?"

Grigsby nodded.

"They'll all be very disturbed by this," Oscar said.

"Not as disturbed as Molly Woods."

Oscar frowned. "Yes, of course. Of course. But at the risk of repeating myself, I'd like to say that not one of them could have been responsible for any of this. I should be happy to swear to that. I've been traveling with all of them for weeks now. I know them. I've eaten with them."

Grigsby shrugged. "Even a crazy person's gotta eat."

"But it's impossible."

Grigsby said, "One of them didn't do it, then you did."

Oscar raised his eyebrows. "Marshal-"

"You listen to me," Grigsby said. "Someone killed those hookers. Way I figure it, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's got to be one of you people. One of the seven. Now maybe it wasn't you. And then again maybe it was. You know your presidents, maybe, but that story about the streets, Washington and Lincoln, that story is bulls.h.i.t. So I want to tell you this. I'm gonna be all over you and your people like ugly on a hog. You take a drink, any one of you, and I'm gonna swallow. You fart, and I'm gonna smell it. If it was you who did it, I'm gonna find out. We clear on that?"

"Yes, certainly, but-"

"Good." He stalked to the door, opened it, and strode out, pulling it shut behind him.

CRIGSBY STOOD FOR A MOMENT outside Wilde's door. His hip was throbbing-all that standing-and he was still shaky from pulling the gun. He had moved reflexively, without thinking-the moment Wilde reached into his pocket, Grigsby's hand had jumped to the Colt, surprising him as much as it had Wilde.

Jesus, he hadn't drawn down on anyone for years. No call for it. Now, alone in the hotel corridor, he could feel the tension percolating from his body. He'd held it in, ignored it, while he talked to Wilde. But now it was trickling away like sap from a tree, leaving him limp and weak.

He took a breath, let it out.

He smiled. One thing, though-he was still pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n fast. Not as fast as he used to be, naturally. Not after all the years, all the wear and tear, all the booze. But still pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n fast.

He adjusted his gunbelt with a self-satisfied tug.

Not bad for an old man.

By G.o.d, that deserved a drink.

Sitting in the empty bar downstairs, staring at his gla.s.s of bourbon, Grigsby frowned.

Could Wilde have done it? Killed and cut up Molly Woods and the others?

He was a nance. Looked like one. Acted like one. All soft and fluttery, talking through his nose with that airy-fairy accent. Grigsby was convinced that Englishmen-he had met a few-only talked that way out of spite. If you woke them up in the middle of the night, caught them off guard, they'd talk like normal people.

Now nances, it was a well-known fact, didn't like women. Hated them. Jealousy.

But you wouldn't think that a nance would have the b.a.l.l.s to cut a woman up like that.

But you wouldn't think that a nance would have the b.a.l.l.s to light up a cigarette, bold as bra.s.s, while someone was holding a loaded Colt to his forehead, either.

Grigsby had seen the faint shaking of Wilde's hand as he held out the cigarette case. It hadn't lessened his respect for the gesture. Anyone who didn't get a bit edgy when someone pointed a gun at him wasn't right in the head.

No, Wilde had some b.a.l.l.s, all right. For a nance.

Well now. Be fair. Lot of normal men wouldn't have the b.a.l.l.s to light up a cigarette with the barrel of a .45 looking up their nose.

But did Wilde have b.a.l.l.s enough to commit four cold-blooded murders?

That wasn't b.a.l.l.s. That was craziness, pure and simple.

Wilde had seemed surprised when he heard about Molly Woods. Surprised, h.e.l.l, he nearly s.h.i.t in his pants.

But that could've been playacting. Nances were good at playacting. Lot of stage actors were nances. Came from playing at being women, maybe. Or playing at being normal. And Wilde was smart enough to pull it off-look at the way he'd come up with that story about the streets. Smooth as a snake oil salesman.

But the corner of Lincoln and Washington was a good two miles from Molly Woods's shack. So why the story?