Under the Dragon's Tail (9 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

J
ust down from the station, on Parliament Street, there was a pharmacy and Murdoch headed there first. The bell tinkled as he opened the door and stepped into the dark interior. The shop smelled of camphor. The druggist was standing behind the counter, which was laden with bottles filled with variously coloured liquids. He had large, prominent ears, twinkling eyes, and looked rather like an elf among woodland flowers. He smiled the happy welcome of somebody who hasn’t seen many customers this morning. The nameplate on top of the counter said
Mr. Bright
.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m William Murdoch, acting detective at number-
four station. Wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

Mr. Bright’s smile dimmed slightly. Not a paying customer then. However, curiosity made him cheer up.

“Ask away. Only too glad to be of service.”

Murdoch took out the envelope from his pocket and gave it to the druggist.

“I wonder if you can tell me what this is?”

Mr. Bright shook out some of the mixture into his hand. He sniffed carefully, turned his head away to breathe, then smelled the substance again. Delicately, he took a pinch, rubbed it between his fingers, and tasted it. Repeated that. Finally he took a magnifying glass out of the drawer and examined the herbs. He frowned.

“Am I allowed to ask why you want to know?”

“I’m investigating a serious criminal case.”

Bright nodded solemnly. “I can imagine what.” He dusted off his palm. “There’s a hint of liquorice smell, which means the herb pennyroyal. The woody bits are cottonwood bark by the look of it, and the green slivers are tansy. I’d have to do some proper tests if you want me to swear on oath, but I’d say that’s what we’ve got.”

Murdoch had suspected as much. They were abortifacients.

“Would these herbs be easy to come by?”

“Easy as roses. You can order a mixture like this from the Sears catalogue or you can grow them yourself. You have to know the right proportions, mind you,
but there’s lots who’ll tell you for a bit of Judas money.”

Murdoch wondered if the herbs were the reason for Dolly’s late-night visitor. And if they had anything to do with the money on her person or her death.

“Thank you, Mr. Bright. You’ve been a great help.”

For a moment, the druggist looked sorrowful.

“It’s a tragic thing that young women are driven to such measures.”

“Indeed.”

He left the man to his ruminations and set off for the Derby.

The tavern was a narrow three-storey building sitting at the corner of King Street and Parliament, just far enough away from the grand shops not to contaminate them. There was a foundry to the left on King Street whose tall chimneys were puffing out dark, acrid columns of smoke, like a warning of hellfire. The imbibers in the tavern seemed oblivious to any such message, and as Murdoch approached he could hear the noise of raucous singing.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.

I’m half crazy all for the love of you…”

All of the tavern windows were up and smudges of tobacco smoke drifted out towards the street. He propped his wheel against the curb, watched idly by a
small knot of men who had spilled outside and were clustered around the doorway. They yielded reluctantly as he pushed his way through and went into the tavern. The thick fug that assailed him made his eyes sting and he coughed. The room was jammed, mostly with working men. A line of choristers was standing on the benches, arms linked, pints in one hand, pipes in the other. They were swaying back and forth and singing their lungs raw.

“It won’t be a stylish marriage.

I can’t afford a carriage…”

The mob was so dense he couldn’t get any further into the room, but he could see a stage at the far end with two limelights illuminating a young woman perched atop a stepladder. A board to the right of the stage announced that she was
Miss Annie Brogan: Internationally Acclaimed Chanteuse
. If she was a good singer Murdoch couldn’t tell at this point because her voice was totally drowned out by her audience.

“I can’t afford a carriage…”

Miss Brogan descended step by step from her ladder, her skirt hitched sufficiently to show off a dainty white boot and the edge of lace drawers. She came to the front of the stage and leaned forward, revealing a generous
amount of naked, rounded flesh flowing over the top of her well-cinched bodice. Her bare arms gleamed in the white light.

“Keep going,” she called out.

“You’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle made for two.”

Murdoch began to shoulder his way through the crowd so he could get closer.

“Hey you, where’s your ticket?”

A burly man in shirtsleeves who was stationed near the door grabbed him by the arm.

“I don’t have one,” said Murdoch.

“Thirty-five cents.”

He could have fished out his identification card but he decided not to. He would rather get the lay of the land first. Knowing he was a detective had a way of changing people’s normal behaviour.

He managed to get some money out of his pocket and handed it to the doorkeeper. They were standing so close their noses were only a few inches apart.

“Here. Hold on to it. No spitting and no climbing on the stage unless you’re asked.”

Nobody else seemed to have paid attention to either rule. The straw-strewn floor was sticky with spilled beer and expectorations of tobacco juice, and Murdoch noticed two young mashers in striped blazers were trying to get on the stage. The doorkeeper also saw them
and he let out a shout of anger and began to shove his way forward. He was big and strong and pushed the customers aside ruthlessly. Murdoch followed in his wake feeling like a dinghy behind a trawler. When they reached the stage the man grabbed one of the young fellows by the leg and jerked him back to the ground. He gave a yell of pain but was good-naturedly helped to his feet by some of the audience. The second young man, who had the pale skin of a bank clerk, was standing unsteadily in front of the stepladder looking up yearningly at Annie Brogan, who had quickly retreated to her perch. She smiled sweetly and wagged her finger in admonishment, at the same time moving up a rung. Then the manager clambered on the stage, lifted the fellow bodily, and dumped him into the crowd like a sack of coal.

Another round of “Daisy” was in full blast, but Annie held up her hand for silence. The piano player stopped in midchord, and there was a gradual quietening as the men blearily started to hush everybody up. When it was quiet enough to make herself heard, she said, “That Daisy could go on forever. She’s never spent, is she?”

The innuendo created another wave of laughter. A short sprat of a man in an old-fashioned stovepipe hat called out shrilly, “Hey, Annie, I seen your picture in the
News
. You’re famous.”

She made a big show of hanging her head. “Reverend Whittaker accused me of indecency. Me of all people…he must not be seeing so good–I wonder why that is?”
She waited a moment for them to recover from that one. “All right, you men, here’s a riddle for you. I just want to know if you’re up tonight. Are you?”

Deafening shouts reverberated through the room and there were a few obscene gestures.

“Ready? What do an American, a rooster, and an old maid have in common?”

“What, Annie, what?” called various of the men.

She looked pert. “An American says, ‘Yankee, doodle do.’ A rooster says, ‘Doodle, doodle do,’ and an old maid says, ‘Any cock’ll do.’ No, wait. Wait! I got that wrong, I mean–‘any dude will do.’” Her correction was lost in the laughter. Once again she requested silence.

“Now for my favourite part of the evening…and yours…”

She nodded to the piano player, who began to tinkle the keys softly. She climbed down delicately from the ladder and came back to the edge of the stage, leaning over to speak to the men who were closest. There was a gasp at the sight.

“You, sir. You in the brown cap. What’s your name?”

“Archie, miss.”

The man was short and wiry with a rather grubby face, as if he never quite got it clean.

“And what’s your trade, Charlie?”

He shuffed his feet and looked embarrassed.

“He’s a honey man,” yelled his companion. There were cries from those beside him who ostentatiously swayed away.

Annie stepped back. “Oh dear! An honest trade if ever I heard of one, but a little too sweet for me I’m afraid.”

She surveyed the men pressing in front of her.

“Me! Me!” They were thrusting their hands in the air like boys in a classroom. Annie pointed to one of them who was wearing a beige linen suit that looked as if he’d got it from a secondhand clothes shop on Queen Street. But he had wide shoulders, and even under the too-big coat he looked strong.

“You’re a real swell. What do you do?”

He stammered. “I’m a logger, miss.”

“My, that’s grand. But I don’t know if I can ever trust a logging man again.”

“Why is that, Annie?” bellowed a tough in the front row.

She pouted. “It was a logging man as ruined my sister.”

“Oh no!”

She began to prance back and forth as she told the story.

“My sister is a dear, dear girl, soft-hearted as…sh…well, let’s say very soft-hearted. One day this logging man came to her. He was very low.” Lots of titters. “His mood, I mean, you naughty men. He told her he was in danger of losing his crib. ‘Oh dear,’ says she, foolish girl. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ ‘There is that,’ says Charlie. ‘You see, a logging man has to be real handy with his hook. He’s got to get those logs unjammed and sometimes they are sooo tight, you just can’t get your bill in
no how–’” Huge guffaws. Annie acted bewildered. “I don’t know what’s so funny about that! Let me go on with my story. ‘All I need is a little practice,’ says he, so my sister, who has too many soft things about her, heart, head, and–well, never mind that. Anyway, she helped that logging man practice all summer with that long, long, long hook of his. But then you know what?”

“What, Annie?” they yelled in unison.

“When winter came
he
was completely cured of his problem and happily he trotted off to go back to his crib…and now
my sister has a problem
.”

Roars of laughter. Rather guiltily, Murdoch found himself smiling too.

Annie held out her hand.

“I hope I can trust you, Charlie. And don’t forget I’m wearing my new boots.”

She lifted her skirt so they could see. More hollers and hoots. Murdoch was pressed against the stage. The heat was overwhelming and he was sweating. The smell from the bodies jammed against him was rank.

The piano player began to thump out another song.

“
I had a sweet little dickie bird…
”

The lumberjack clambered on the stage and took Annie clumsily in his arms. They did a waltz around the stage, the logger moving his arm up and down as if he was at the pump. She only tolerated it for two rounds then she let go and led him back to the stairs.

“That was lovely,” she said with a grimace, rubbing her arm. “Got the blood flowing. Who’s next?”

Murdoch didn’t wait. Boldly, he shoved the honey man away from him and vaulted onto the stage. The others shouted disparaging comments. He ignored them and bowed politely to Annie. She curtsied back and Murdoch held up his arms in dance position just as Professor Otranto had taught him.

Annie smiled. “Ha, a dancer I see.”

“I sure am,” said Murdoch. He didn’t add that to date his only partner had been his teacher, who took the woman’s part. His first real dance was coming up next week.

Graciously, Annie stepped up to him. This close he could see how painted her face was, the complexion unnaturally smooth and white, the cheeks and lips rouged. She placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in his. She smiled up at him but it was an impersonal professional smile. He smelled a waft of violet on her breath. As did the good professor, she favoured breath cachous. Her eyes were unnaturally shiny, and as she readied herself he could detect a slight unsteadiness to her stance. She’s as close to being full as you can get without falling over, he thought.

The piano player started again, the audience joining in.

“I had a sweet little dickie bird,

Tweet, tweet tweet, he went…”

The bobbing red feather pinned in her hair was brushing his nose. They started to waltz, Murdoch trying to pay
attention both to her and to his feet. He was counting in his head. One, two, three; one, two, three.

“What do you do when you’re not dancing, Charlie?”

He executed a tricky cross-step. She followed easily.

“I’m a police officer. Acting Detective William Murdoch.”

The bodice beneath his hand was stiff and unyielding, but even so he felt the sudden tightening of her back. There was a flash of fear across her eyes but the smile replaced it immediately.