The Loner: Trail Of Blood (7 page)

“What’s the name of this tavern where I’ll find Murtagh?”

Gallagher said, “It’s called Serrano’s. Run by a Eye-talian fella.”

Conrad smiled faintly. “I didn’t think the Irish and the Italians got along that well.”

“We don’t.” Gallagher snorted contemptuously. “But Serrano sells cheap booze and cheaper women. I don’t go there, myself.”

“And you shouldn’t, either, sir,” Clancy added. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on here, but ye’d be better off steerin’ well clear o’ Eddie Murtagh.”

“We’ll see.” Conrad looked at the bloody corpse. “Right now we have a more pressing problem.”

Gallagher shook his head. “No, I can get rid of that body, don’t ye worry. Nobody will ever find it and ask any inconvenient questions.”

“What about that gunshot?”

“Also nothin’ to worry about. Since it was just one shot, anybody who heard it will figure somebody was shootin’ at a rat or some such.” Gallagher frowned at the corpse. “They wouldn’t be far wrong, at that.”

“Tend to Clancy’s wound first,” Conrad told him. “Then we’ll get out of here.” He took some bills from his pocket and pressed them into Gallagher’s hand. “For your trouble.”

“Gettin’ rid o’ gutter scum like this is no trouble. It’s more along the lines of a pleasure.”

Gallagher got Clancy’s bloody coat and shirt off him, revealing the wound in the big Irishman’s arm to be a fairly deep furrow where a bullet had creased him. It had bled a lot and probably hurt like hell, but Conrad didn’t think the injury was serious. Gallagher used some whiskey to clean it, leading to bitter complaints from Clancy about a waste of perfectly good booze. Then the smaller man bandaged the wound.

“I can get back to the hotel alone if you’re not up to driving,” Conrad offered.

“Oh? Ye think you could find your way back, do ye?”

Conrad smiled. “Well … not really.”

“Never you mind. I’m fine to drive, now that Gallagher here has finished tendin’ to me arm.”

“There’s a bonus in this for you, too. I know you didn’t expect gunplay when you hired on to drive me tonight.”

“’Tis not necessary … but I’ll not be turnin’ it down.”

Conrad asked Gallagher, “Is there anything else you can tell me about this man”—he nodded toward the dead man—“or about Murtagh?”

Gallagher shook his head. “I have as little as possible to do with their sort. Men like Murtagh been runnin’ gangs in this town for a long time. They’re used to killin’ anybody who gets in their way. I still think it’d be best for you to stay away from Serrano’s. Hell, if somebody wants you dead bad enough to hire Murtagh, maybe you ought to get outta Boston entirely!”

“That wouldn’t do any good,” Conrad said.
“Whoever it is would just come after me, or send someone like Murtagh after me. I’d rather meet the trouble head-on.”

“May the saints be watchin’ over ye, then,” Gallagher said, “because you’re likely to need all the help ye can get!”

Arturo knew something had happened as soon as Conrad came into the hotel suite. “You’re rumpled and dusty and positively disreputable, sir. What have you been doing, rolling around in the street?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. A horse knocked me down.”

“I thought I smelled something. I take it this incident did
not
occur at Mrs. Garrison’s dinner party?”

“No, some men stopped the carriage on the way back here.” Conrad left out the fact that he and Clancy had actually been on their way to an Irish pub, not to the hotel. “They tried to make it look like a robbery, but I’m convinced their actual goal was to kill me.”

“Let me guess,” Arturo said. “You killed them instead.”

“Well, I wounded a couple of them, but they got away. I don’t know how bad they were hit. One of the others … well, he wound up with a pitchfork in his belly, but that wasn’t completely my doing.”

Despite his attempt at an unflappable demeanor, Arturo looked a little shocked. “Are you injured or just disheveled, sir?”

“I’m all right,” Conrad assured him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d have this tuxedo cleaned and pressed. I might need it again while I’m here.”

“Of course. Is there a chance the night’s activities are going to result in a visit from the authorities?”

“Not likely. I don’t think anybody knows what happened except you, me, and Clancy … and the men who tried to kill me, along with the man they work for.”

“Do you know who that is?” Arturo asked.

Conrad smiled. “I have a pretty good idea.”

“So I suppose you’ll be paying him a visit, as well?”

“Yes, but not tonight.” Conrad pulled his tie off. “I think I’m done for the night.”

Despite that comment, he had a lot to think about. After he turned in, he found himself lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as the wheels of his brain revolved.

It had been a hunch on his part the apparent robbery was more than that. Once it was confirmed, it left him with another, more compelling question. Who wanted him dead badly enough to hire Eddie Murtagh to see to it?

Pamela’s cousin and lover, Roger Tarleton, had been behind Conrad’s recent troubles, but Roger was locked up in New Mexico. Some other Tarleton relative could have taken up the family legacy of twisted vengeance.

Another possibility occurred to Conrad. Pamela had gone to a lot of trouble in her efforts to make his life miserable. He wondered if she could have made some sort of arrangement with Murtagh before she left Boston with the twins. She could have paid him to arrange to have Conrad killed if he ever showed up in the city again, whether she was still alive or not. That was just the sort of diabolical thing she might have done.

The good thing about all this, Conrad told himself, was that he didn’t have to wonder.

All he had to do was ask Eddie Murtagh.

Conrad didn’t plan to venture out to Serrano’s until the next night, thinking he would have more luck finding Murtagh then. He slept late and was having breakfast in the sitting room when a knock came on the door.

He didn’t think Murtagh would come after him in the hotel, but he slipped his hand into the pocket of his dressing gown and closed it around the butt of the small .32 caliber pistol he had placed there before he nodded to Arturo to answer the door.

“Who’s there?” the valet called.

“Jack Mallory.”

Conrad nodded again. Arturo opened the door to admit the private detective. Mallory came in and handed Arturo his hat.

Conrad asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Conrad said as Arturo poured the coffee.

“You didn’t say how often you wanted reports from me. Since I had some information I thought I’d go ahead and give it to you.”

Conrad leaned forward eagerly. “What have you found out?”

“I have contacts in most of the hospitals in the city. Pamela Tarleton wasn’t admitted to any of them in the past four years, at least not under her own name.”

Conrad shook his head. “I expected that. I’ve believed all along that she gave birth in a private hospital or sanitarium.”

Mallory took the cup from Arturo and nodded his thanks. “Here’s the thing. Some of the nurses I know have also worked for doctors in private hospitals. I was able to spread the word, including Miss Tarleton’s description, and I found a girl who remembers a patient who might have been her.”

Conrad came to his feet. “That was fast work.”

“I haven’t determined yet if the patient actually
was
Miss Tarleton,” Mallory said with a shrug. “I can continue to investigate, but I’m not sure how far I’ll get. The doctor who runs this place has a lot of rich patients, so I’m sure he’s in the habit of being discreet. He’s not going to want to talk to a detective.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dr. Vernon Futrelle.”

The name was familiar to Conrad. Dr. Futrelle operated a sanitarium across the river in Cambridge that catered to the wealthy and powerful
members of Boston’s elite. It was just the sort of place where a woman such as Pamela, who found herself with child and without a husband, could go to give birth without anyone knowing about it. Conrad suspected that plenty of daughters from rich families had done exactly that. It was easier than sailing off to Europe for a year, another time-honored method of dealing with that particular problem. Futrelle also numbered among his patients women who were too fond of alcohol or opium, things like that.

Mallory was right about one thing: Dr. Futrelle would never reveal his patients’ secrets willingly. Discretion was as important as his medical skill, if not more so.

He might be more inclined to talk to a member of Boston society, however.

“Tell me what else you know,” Conrad said as a plan began to formulate in his mind. “When was this mysterious patient who might have been Miss Tarleton at Dr. Futrelle’s sanitarium?”

Mallory shook his head. “The girl I talked to couldn’t remember for sure. Somewhere between three and four years ago. That was as much as she could narrow it down.”

“How long was she there?”

“Several months. She had a private suite, of course. Her and the maid she brought with her.”

“Maid?”

“Yeah, she had a servant with her.”

“Did the nurse you talked to remember anything about the maid?” Conrad thought it might be productive to track the woman down.

But Mallory shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. Who pays attention to servants?”

Unfortunately, that was true. Pamela and her father had had numerous servants working for them, and despite the fact that Conrad had been in the Tarleton house a great deal while he and Pamela were engaged, he couldn’t remember any of them. Of course, he had been a pompous jackass back then, he reminded himself.

“All right. That’s good work, Mr. Mallory. Excellent work. I’ll speak to Dr. Futrelle myself and see if I can find out anything.”

“That might be your best bet,” Mallory agreed.

“Do you have anything else to report?”

“No, that’s all I’ve learned so far. You want me to continue with the investigation?”

“Of course. This business with Dr. Futrelle might not pan out at all.” Conrad paused. “There’s something else I’d like to ask you. Are you familiar with a man named Eddie Murtagh?”

Mallory’s bushy red brows drew down in a puzzled frown. “Murtagh’s the leader of one of the gangs you can find in the worst part of town. He’s a killer, even though the law’s never been able to get anything on him. Everybody in that neighborhood is too scared of him to ever testify against him. Why do you want to know about Eddie Murtagh?”

“I understand he can be found at a tavern called Serrano’s. I’ll go see Dr. Futrelle this afternoon, but I thought I might pay Murtagh a visit tonight.”

Mallory grimaced. “No offense, Mr. Browning, but that’s a crazy idea.”

“I expressed the same opinion,” Arturo put in. “Although in more civilized terms.”

“Why do you want to get yourself killed poking around Murtagh’s business?” Mallory asked.

“Because
he
started poking around
my
business,” Conrad replied. “Or rather some of the men who work for him did. They tried to kill me last night.”

The detective grunted in surprise. “You’ve got to tell me about this, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Conrad explained the events of the night before.

Mallory listened with rapt attention, his coffee forgotten. “If you go waltzing into Serrano’s and start asking questions of Murtagh, you won’t make it out of there alive.”

“I don’t intend to walk up to the man and introduce myself as Conrad Browning. I thought I’d be a bit more subtle than that.”

“You don’t think you’ll stick out like a sore thumb in the place?”

Conrad glanced down at the silk dressing gown he wore. “I don’t plan to wear this, you know. I can change my appearance and pretend to be someone I’m not.”

Mallory could ask the notorious gunfighter Kid Morgan about that if he didn’t believe it.

“You need somebody with you who knows what it’s like down there,” Mallory said.

“Are you volunteering for the job?”

“Hell, no!” A grin spread across Mallory’s rugged
face. “I’m not volunteering. It’ll cost you. More than you’re paying me to go around and ask questions at hospitals. In fact, if we’re lucky, that’s where we’ll wind up, in a hospital.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

“The morgue,” Mallory said, then added with a shrug, “Or the Charles River.”

They made arrangements to meet at the hotel at seven o’clock that evening. In the meantime, Conrad would pay a visit to Dr. Vernon Futrelle’s sanitarium in Cambridge.

Conrad put in a call to the boarding house where Clancy lived, which was equipped with a telephone, and got him on the line. He asked the big Irishman to meet him at the hotel at two o’clock, then added, “That is, if you’re able to handle a team. How’s your arm today?”

“A bit stiff and sore, but fine other than that. Gallagher did a fine job of patchin’ it up, although I still hate to think of all that whiskey goin’ for medicinal purposes.”

Conrad chuckled. “Stick with me, my friend, and you’ll be able to afford plenty of whiskey.”

“I’m your man, Mr. Browning. I’ll be there.”

After Conrad ended the call, Arturo said, “It sounds to me as if you’ll be leaping right from one danger into another, sir.”

“Are you talking about going to the sanitarium?”
Conrad asked with a frown. “I shouldn’t be in any danger there. Now, Serrano’s will be a different story tonight.”

“I don’t like sanitariums,” Arturo said. “There’s an air of madness about them, and it’s too easy for one to be locked up in such a place.”

Conrad shook his head. “This isn’t that sort of sanitarium. Dr. Futrelle handles different kinds of ailments.”

Yet there might be something to what Arturo said, Conrad mused. When Futrelle’s patients were drying out from booze or trying to get away from opium or other drugs, there might well be times when they would have to be locked up, perhaps even restrained, as lunatics were in asylums. In order to do that, Futrelle would have to have some tough, burly orderlies working for him.