Critch recounted the money, distributing it sheaf by sheaf in the cunningly constructed pockets of his suit. The tailor who specialized in such clothing had boasted that a fortune could be concealed in the suit without the slightest telltale bulge. Standing up and critically examining himself, Critch saw that the tailor had made no idle brag.
Seventy-two thousand dollars – _seventy-two thousand dollars._ Yet no one would have guessed that he was hiding as much as a dollar shinplaster. He had stolen a couple of hundred dollars out of the woman's purse, so all together –
_Seventy-two thousand!_ It was more money than he had ever dreamed of having. It was, in fact, too damned _much_ money to show up with at his father's household. Even with Old Ike's very liberal views about the acquisition of money, it was far too much, particularly since most of it was in five-hundred and thousand-dollar bills. The old man would simply declare him a murderer, or at best a large-scale bankrobber, and summon a Federal marshal. And a hell of a lot of good it would do Critch King, even if he could make anyone believe the truth as to how he had come by the swag.
It was one of those cases where a lie wouldn't help and the truth was damning. If nothing worse, he would be disowned by Old Ike, disqualified for any share in his father's fortune. Obviously, then, his possession of so much money would have to be kept secret. And that being the case…
A plan began to form in his mind. The first step in that plan was leaving the train at the boom city of El Reno, and then – Or, no, that wasn't quite the first step. Right at the moment, there was the money belt to be got rid of.
Critch tried to raise the glazed window. It was stuck, of course; the damned things were always stuck. Critch hesitated, then raised the lid of the toilet.
It was not truly a toilet, in the modern sense of the word. Merely a privy, which opened directly onto the roadbed. Critch dropped the belt into it. Then, after an approving glance at himself in the mirror, he lighted another cheroot and stepped out into the corridor.
The conductor was surveying the disarray of the women's restroom. He turned, his eyes sharpening with suspicion, as Critch came into the areaway.
'What's your name, mister?' he demanded.
'My name?' Critch considered the question, taking a thoughtful draw on his cigar. 'I don't believe,' he said coolly, 'that that is any of your God damned business.'
'Maybe I'll make it my business! Where you been sittin' tonight?'
'All over your filthy train,' Critch said, 'trying to find a seatmate who didn't stink or snore. Regrettably, I found no one who didn't do both.'
'You was settin' next to a young woman, wasn't you? For part of the night, anyways. I know you was!'
'Indeed?' Critch flicked ashes from his cheroot. 'Now, let me tell you something I know. That unless I am immediately provided with the drawing-room I was promised by your Tulsa ticket agent, you are going to find yourself out of a job.'
'Drawing roo – huh?' The conductor blinked stupidly. 'Now, looky, here – '
'Drawing room,' Critch repeated firmly. 'This train carries one car for first-class passengers, so I know you must have a drawing-room available by now. You will get my luggage out of the baggage car and take me to it, instantly.'
He extended his baggage checks, loftily holding out a five dollar bill with them. 'Your tip,' he explained. 'Well? What are you waiting for, man? I want to get cleaned up before we arrive in King's Junction.'
The conductor took the checks and the money, his dull face registering confusion. Then, in sudden alarm, he tried to thrust them back at Critch.
_'King's Junction?'_ he said. 'Mister, we passed King's Junction fifteen-twenty minutes ago!'
'You passed it!' Critch said with a fine show of incredulity. 'After all my instructions to your man in Tulsa, you carried me past the Junction!'
'B-but – but I called it out. Maybe you didn't hear me, but – '
'I left instructions that I be called personally! Incidentally, King is the name. Critchfield King.'
'But no one told me nothin' about – King?' said the conductor. 'Did you say – are you any relation to – to – '
'I am. Isaac Joshua King is my father. You've heard the name, I imagine?'
The conductor nodded miserably. Had he ever heard of him! Everyone connected with the railroad, from president to porter, had heard of Old Ike King and dreaded incurring his wrath. Not so long before, when the railroad had been somewhat slow in paying for a couple of runover cows, Old Ike had had a train log-chained to its tracks; delaying it some six hours until a division superintendent could arrive by special train to apologize and make a payment in person.
Ike King was a law unto himself. As the personal friend of at least one president of the United States – a man who had visited the Junction and hunted with him – the laws governing ordinary mortals seemed simply not to apply to him.