Read The Loner: Crossfire Online
Authors: J.A. Johnstone
The Loner: Crossfire (8 page)
Chapter 14
“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” Nash asked as Conrad stopped at his desk.
Conrad nodded. “I hope so.”
“The old witch didn’t make you promise your firstborn in return for her help?”
Conrad managed not to wince. Nash didn’t know anything about the reason he was in San Francisco, he reminded himself. The reporter didn’t mean anything by the comment about Conrad’s firstborn.
“We reached an equitable arrangement. And I’d hardly call Francis Carlyle an old witch.”
Nash shrugged. “I’m probably being unfair to her. But watch yourself when you’re dealing with her, Conrad. She’ll steal a story right out from under you if you’re not careful.”
“But I’m not a reporter,” Conrad pointed out.
“She can be a little predatory when it comes to young men she finds attractive. At least so I’ve heard,” Nash added. “I don’t seem to be her type, thank God.”
Conrad shook hands with his old friend. “I’ll be in touch.”
When he reached the lobby, he spotted Patrick Dugan sitting in a chair next to a potted palm. Dugan was reading a newspaper, or at least pretending to. His gaze roved around the lobby constantly as he kept a lookout for trouble, the way a good bodyguard should.
He spotted Conrad and stood up, leaving the paper in the chair. “Get your business taken care of ?” he asked as he walked over.
Conrad nodded. “Yes, we’re going back to the hotel now.”
He wasn’t sure how he was going to fill up the time during the next four days as he waited for the ball at the Kimball mansion. Maybe he could actually force himself to rest and relax, as Claudius Turnbuckle had suggested, although if he was being honest with himself, he considered that possibility rather remote. After everything that had happened, he didn’t think he was capable of going back to a life of leisure.
A thought occurred to him as he and Dugan walked back toward the Palace. “Were you ever a policeman, Patrick?”
“Because I’m a big, redheaded Irishman, you mean?”
“Because you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, yeah, I was on the force for ten years. Did right well for myself, too. Worked my way up to bein’ a detective. But then Mr. Turnbuckle offered me more money to work for him, and well, I had hungry mouths to feed. I couldn’t turn down the job.”
“What do you do for Claudius besides bodyguard work?”
“Whatever needs doin’. I’ve handled quite a few investigations for him, workin’ on one case or another.”
“When you were with the police, did you ever have anything to do with the tongs?”
Dugan bristled. “What do you mean? Are you askin’ if any of those heathen Chinamen ever paid me off to look the other way while they went about their mischief ?”
“Good Lord, no,” Conrad said without hesitation. “I just wondered if you handled any cases involving them.”
“Oh. Sorry,” Dugan muttered. “Reckon I jumped to a conclusion there. Yeah, some of the cases I worked on took me to Chinatown, and you can’t turn around in Chinatown without bumpin’ into somebody from one of the tongs.”
“Are they still at war with each other?”
“There’s still some trouble now and then, but it’s not like it used to be. Diamond Jack took care of that.”
“Diamond Jack?”
“Yeah. His real name is Wong Duck, but he calls himself Diamond Jack because he’s got a little diamond mounted right here.” Dugan tapped a blunt fingertip against one of his two front teeth. “He came up through the Woo Sing tong and finally took it over. That wasn’t enough for him, though. He managed to talk the other tongs into callin’ a truce. He said they could all make more money if they weren’t fightin’ each other all the time. That makes sense, of course, but I didn’t figure he’d ever talk all those other Chinamen into goin’ along with the idea. Somehow he did.”
“So they don’t have hatchet men anymore?”
Dugan laughed. “Oh, the tongs still have their hatchet men, all right. The leaders don’t trust each other all
that
much, and I reckon none of ’em completely trust Diamond Jack.” The bodyguard frowned. “Why are you askin’ about tongs and hatchet men and such like?”
that
much, and I reckon none of ’em completely trust Diamond Jack.” The bodyguard frowned. “Why are you askin’ about tongs and hatchet men and such like?”
Conrad couldn’t very well explain about his perilous adventure at Spanish Charley’s the night before. Dugan would tell Turnbuckle about the incident, and Turnbuckle would increase the number of guards watching over Conrad until it would be impossible to get out from under their scrutiny.
“I saw a big fellow on the street the other day,” he said vaguely, deciding he might be able to risk a description of the man who had come to his rescue. “He was Chinese, dressed all in black, with a half-moon shaped scar on his right cheek.” Conrad traced a finger along his own cheek to indicate the path of the scar. “When I saw him, I said to myself, now that looks like a hatchet man. So the sight made me curious, that’s all.”
Dugan grunted. “Sounds like a hatchet man, all right. Most of them are big, ugly scoundrels. You want to stay away from them, Mr. Browning, and you should steer clear of Chinatown, too. There’s nothin’ down there but joss houses, opium dens, brothels, and eatin’ joints where they serve things you’re better off not knowin’ what they are. No reason for a white man to have anything to do with that place.”
Conrad was sure plenty of white customers patronized those places Dugan had mentioned, but he didn’t point that out. “I’m not going there. I was curious, that’s all.”
“You just listen to old Pat Dugan, sir. I won’t steer you wrong.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Conrad agreed.
At the same time, he wondered about the man who had saved his life in Spanish Charley’s. Dex Lannigan’s Golden Gate Saloon was on the boundary between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown. Was it possible there was a connection between the tongs and his mission to find his children?
Would Pamela have hidden the twins somewhere in the depths of the Chinese quarter? Conrad didn’t want to think so, but at the same time, was anything beyond the realm of possibility when it came to Pamela Tarleton?
Despite what he had told Dugan, he might have to pay a visit to Chinatown after all.
The rest of the day passed quietly, and that evening Conrad was sitting in his suite after supper when someone knocked on the door. Morelli was on duty in the corridor again, and Conrad knew that after being caught sleeping the night before, the bodyguard was unlikely to let anybody into the suite who wasn’t harmless. Conrad opened the door and found a man in a sober black suit standing there, bowler hat in hand.
“Mr. Conrad Browning?” the man asked. Morelli stood a few feet away, watching with his arms crossed and a suspicious frown on his face.
Conrad nodded. “That’s right.”
The man extended a square envelope with a fancy seal pressed into the wax holding it closed. “With the compliments of Mr. and Mrs. Madison Kimball, sir.”
Mrs. Carlyle had kept her promise, Conrad thought as he took the envelope and broke the seal. Sure enough, a fancy, gold-printed invitation to the ball at the Kimball mansion was inside on a heavy, giltedged card.
Conrad knew the man in the black suit—probably the Kimballs’ butler—was waiting for a response to take back to his employers. “Please tell Mr. and Mrs. Kimball I’ll be honored to attend.”
The man inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. I certainly shall. Good evening.”
When the butler was gone, Morelli asked, “Goin’ somewhere, sir?”
“Not tonight. But four nights from now I’ll be attending a party at the Kimball mansion.”
Morelli let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard of the place. Never been there.” He frowned. “Mr. Turnbuckle’s gonna want me to come along with you, and I ain’t sure they’ll let me in.”
“If they think you’re my driver, they’ll let you wait outside with the other drivers.”
Morelli shook his head. “I don’t know if that’ll be good enough to suit Mr. Turnbuckle.”
“I’ll speak to him,” Conrad promised. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll be close by, even if you aren’t in the mansion itself.”
“Sometimes close is still too far away.”
Conrad knew the truth of that perhaps better than anyone. He had been close enough to see Rebel in Black Rock Canyon ... just not close enough to save her from being killed.
He forced that thought out of his head and closed the door. Tossing the invitation onto a side table, he went back to the chair where he’d been sitting. A newspaper and a copy of
Harper’s Weekly
were on the table next to the chair. He had already been having trouble concentrating as he tried to read, and now that he knew he was going to the Kimballs’ ball, he was even more distracted. He began thinking about how he would approach Dex Lannigan. If Lannigan was behind the attempts on his life, the man probably knew what he looked like and would recognize him. It was highly unlikely Lannigan would pull a gun and start blazing away at him in the middle of the party, but Conrad couldn’t rule out the possibility entirely.
Harper’s Weekly
were on the table next to the chair. He had already been having trouble concentrating as he tried to read, and now that he knew he was going to the Kimballs’ ball, he was even more distracted. He began thinking about how he would approach Dex Lannigan. If Lannigan was behind the attempts on his life, the man probably knew what he looked like and would recognize him. It was highly unlikely Lannigan would pull a gun and start blazing away at him in the middle of the party, but Conrad couldn’t rule out the possibility entirely.
He needed a smaller gun, something he could carry without anyone noticing it. Tomorrow he would look for such a weapon, he decided.
Something small, but with stopping power at short range. If there was a gunfight at the Kimballs’ ball, all of San Francisco society would be scandalized, but Conrad didn’t care about that.
If there was a gunfight, he intended to win.
Chapter 15
Accompanied by Patrick Dugan, Conrad visited a gunsmith’s shop the next day and picked out a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber double-action revolver with a five-shot cylinder and a barrel that wasn’t much more than two inches long.
“The barrel was three and a quarter inches starting out,” the gunsmith explained, “but I took some off that to make it easier to carry in the inside pocket of a coat or in a shoulder holster. You can get a smaller gun, Mr. Browning, but the .38 will put a man down where a .32 won’t always.”
Conrad nodded as he checked the heft and balance of the weapon and liked what he felt. “With such a short barrel, you can’t expect much accuracy, can you?” he commented.
“Only at close range,” the gunsmith admitted. “But that’s where you’re most likely to need a gun such as this, isn’t it?”
Conrad couldn’t argue with that. He bought the gun and a shoulder holster the gunsmith was only too happy to sell him.
Conrad had told Dugan about attending the ball at the Kimball mansion. He figured Morelli had already reported to Turnbuckle about the butler delivering the invitation the night before, so there was no point in trying to keep it a secret. As they walked back to the hotel with Conrad carrying the case containing the revolver and the holster, Dugan said, “You bought that gun to wear to the party, didn’t you, sir?”
“With everything that’s happened, I think it’s probably a good idea to be armed at all times.” Conrad was carrying his Colt at the moment, in the black holster and gunbelt strapped around his hips. While it was a little unusual to see someone who was openly armed walking around San Francisco, it wasn’t unheard of. Conrad smiled and added, “Even though I have a fine bodyguard with me.”
Dugan grunted. “Considerin’ what I know about you, Mr. Browning, I reckon if trouble broke out it’d be more likely for you to save my life than the other way around.”
“Let’s just try to avoid trouble,” Conrad suggested.
“But be ready for it if it comes.”
Conrad nodded. “Always.”
Time dragged by. Jessup Nash paid a visit to Conrad’s suite at the Palace Hotel the next day, clearly hoping he could get his old friend to reveal more details about that big story he’d been promised, but Conrad remained tight-lipped. He did the same when Francis Carlyle called on him later that same day. She made it fairly obvious she would be willing to spend some time with him in his bedroom whether he told her any more about the story or not, but he eased her out of the suite discreetly and without hurting her feelings.
That evening, with twenty-four hours to go until the Kimballs’ ball, Claudius Turnbuckle arrived at the suite with an excited expression on his face. “Good news,” he said when Conrad led him into the sitting room. “I think my men have finally found D.L. and the Golden Gate.”
Conrad didn’t have the heart to tell his old friend he had known the probable identity of D.L. for several days. “Tell me about it.”
“There’s a saloon on Grant Street in the Barbary Coast called the Golden Gate,” Turnbuckle said, “and it’s owned by a man named Dex Lannigan !”
“And you think he’s the one who sent those killers after us?”
“I’m certain of it. The initials match, and my investigators report that the men who work for Lannigan carry a token like the one you found in the street to identify themselves. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, Conrad, but I’m convinced this is the answer we’ve been looking for!”
Conrad nodded. “I think you’re right. Excellent work, Claudius, as always.”
Turnbuckle went on. “Lannigan has a reputation as a power in the criminal underworld along the bay, but he came out of nowhere about three years ago. About the same time he could have struck a deal with Pamela, in other words.”
“It all makes sense,” Conrad agreed.
They continued to discuss the situation for several minutes, and if Turnbuckle noticed Conrad wasn’t quite as excited as he might have been if all the information were new to him, he didn’t mention it. After telling Conrad more about Lannigan’s background, the lawyer said, “Here’s the really interesting part. Acting probably at his wife’s behest, Lannigan has bullied his way into society, and as a matter of fact, they’re both supposed to be in attendance at a party given by Madison Kimball and his wife tomorrow night.”
Conrad raised his eyebrows. “The ball at the Kimball mansion? I’m going to that affair, Claudius!”
“I thought you might be. I had one of my men dig up a picture of Lannigan, so you’ll recognize him if you see him there.” Turnbuckle held out a folded newspaper.
Conrad didn’t have to feign eagerness as he took the paper. He didn’t know what Dex Lannigan looked like, so as he studied the photograph printed on the front page of the newspaper, his interest was genuine.
The picture showed a man standing beside a carriage parked in front of a large building that appeared to run the length of an entire city block. The man was tall and seemed to be well built, wearing an expensive suit and a derby. The hair under the hat was fair. His face was rugged and a little angular, and although the photographer hadn’t been close enough for Conrad to get a good look at Lannigan’s eyes, there was something hawkish about the saloon owner. Maybe it was just his imagination, Conrad told himself, but Lannigan looked dangerous.
The building behind him had large, fancy windows, and a large sign on it read
THE GOLDEN GATE—FINE WINE AND SPIRITS—GAMES OF CHANCE—ENTERTAINMENT—EVERYONE WELCOME!
THE GOLDEN GATE—FINE WINE AND SPIRITS—GAMES OF CHANCE—ENTERTAINMENT—EVERYONE WELCOME!
“This was taken not long after the place opened,” Turnbuckle explained. “One of my men dug it out of the morgue at the
Chronicle
.”
Chronicle
.”
Conrad nodded. He should have thought of that idea himself. He was sure Jessup Nash would have helped him. But at least he had an idea what Lannigan looked like, although he suspected the man’s appearance would be somewhat different in evening wear, at a fancy Nob Hill party.
Conrad would know Lannigan when he saw him, though. He was certain of that.
“You’re going to have to be careful if you confront him there,” Turnbuckle cautioned. “Lannigan has a reputation as a bad man to cross.”
Conrad thought about the short-barreled S&W .38 he was already wearing in the shoulder rig so he could get used to it. “I intend to be.”
“What we need now is something we can hold over Lannigan’s head in order to make him talk,” Turnbuckle mused. “That won’t be easy. Criminals like that can be very closemouthed.” “Maybe what I should do is pretend
not
to know him. That way I can introduce myself and act like I’m not suspicious of him at all. He might let something slip.”
not
to know him. That way I can introduce myself and act like I’m not suspicious of him at all. He might let something slip.”
Turnbuckle rubbed his chin and frowned in thought. “Perhaps. I think it’s more likely we’re going to have to have him followed and maybe send undercover agents into that saloon of his to find out anything that’s really useful.”
“Whatever you say,” Conrad replied with a nod.
“Really?” Turnbuckle looked surprised. “That’s not like you, Conrad. No offense, but you always want to be right in the middle of things.”
“That hasn’t worked too well so far,” Conrad said, although in reality it had worked better than Turnbuckle had any idea about. “Maybe it’s time to give your way a try.”
Turnbuckle nodded emphatically. “I won’t let you down, you have my word on that. But do try to find out whatever you can by talking to Lannigan at the Kimballs’ ball. It can’t hurt.”
“I will.”
Turnbuckle bustled out excitedly, leaving Conrad to smile, shake his head, and pour brandy into a snifter. He was sitting in one of the armchairs, sipping the drink, when a commotion suddenly broke out in the hallway. Frowning, Conrad set the brandy aside and got to his feet.
A woman screamed in the corridor.
Conrad jerked the door open to see Morelli struggling with a small, shapely female. Scratches on his face oozed blood where she had scratched him. As Conrad stood looking on in surprise, Morelli succeeded in getting his arms around the girl in a bear hug and lifted her off her feet from behind.
“I told you, girl, no little trollop like you is gonna be botherin’ Mr. Browning!” Morelli panted.
“Let me go!” she cried. “I must talk to him—”
“Morelli!” Conrad said sharply. “What’s going on here?” He hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman. She and Morelli were turned partially away from him, and her dark hair hung in front of her face. As Morelli turned toward the door, his captive gave a defiant toss of her head, throwing her hair back. A shock went through Conrad as he recognized her as Carmen, the young prostitute from Spanish Charley’s.
“Please, señor,” she begged. “You must help me! No one else can, and if you don’t ... they will kill me!”
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