Neva hunched her shoulders and without any further effort whatsoever, managed to look pathetic. As if she weren’t, in truth.
I held up one of her arms and pushed the coat sleeve back. “Look at this. They tied her up and whipped her.”
Porter swallowed like he had a bird caught in his throat. “Yeah, well, looks to me like both you ladies’ve been running with the wrong crowd.”
“Her family did this, Porter. I’m telling you, she’s not safe with them.”
Neva’s head lowered and she turned a dull red. “She’s not lying,” she said, her voice so low Porter had to lean closer to hear. “My granddad, he used an old rope to tie me up this morning and took a strap to me after ... well, after. He said another whipping would bring me around soon enough, even if a fist wouldn’t. But I got loose.”
I hadn’t heard all of this before. It fit with the scene my imagination had worked up. “You see?” I said to Porter.
“Yeah. I see, all right.” He looked uncomfortable. “But, China, I ain’t the proper person to take care of a girl. The Kennetts are in town until after the race. Why don’t you ask Mrs. Kennett?”
“My first thought, but I can’t risk putting the Kennett children in the middle of anything dangerous. I mean, look at Neva. She’s only fourteen, but certain people have no qualms about hurting her, and killing her brother.”
“Granddad and my mother didn’t kill Robbie,” Neva said, her halfhearted support of them coming as something of a surprise. “But they fixed it so somebody else did.”
More mention of an elusive somebody.
I nodded, commiserating with her pain. “Your people are in over their heads. Which doesn’t excuse them of culpability in his death. Or their treatment of you. Or even of Mercury.”
I had another little thrill of pride in knowing I’d hoisted the old man in some of his own petard. So to speak.
Porter drew up the lone, rather spindly chair and sat facing us. “This is a fine pickle you’re in, sister,” he said to Neva. “None of which makes me the proper person to mind you.” He looked at me, unconsciously rubbing what I imagined was a sore spot on his belly. “I can’t keep her in here with me, China. You oughta know better than to suggest otherwise. Hell, she’s gotta eat sometime. These folks know me here. I ain’t having them think I brought a ... ah ...”
“Working girl?” I supplied the descriptor he was searching for.
Face red, he said, “Yes. One of them in here.”
“It would be proper for your niece to join you in town, wouldn’t it? Oh, not in the same room, but what about in two rooms next to each other. That would work, right?” I turned to Neva. “What do you think?”
Her smooth brow wrinkled up like an old lady’s. “I’m not his niece.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake!” I’m afraid I got a little huffy. “You can pretend, can’t you?” I caught Porter in my gimlet stare, as well. “And you.”
“We ain’t all as devious as you are,” he muttered. “Comes harder for some of us.”
I managed to ignore his entirely mistaken opinion of my character, sensing agreement just around the corner.
“But you’ll do it, won’t you?” I smiled at him, unable to keep my relief from showing. I’d won him over.
He glowered, although not even Neva seemed disturbed by the fierceness. “Yeah. I suppose. Dang it, China, you know how situations like this chap my hide.”
“Do they?” I kept my face straight with an effort. Of course I knew it. Why else would I be here? Sir Galahad indeed!
“But,” he said, and shook a thick forefinger in my face, “I ain’t staying here at the Beaver with her in tow. They know me too well. Me and the girl will move on over to the Michigan Hotel. Mostly out-of-towners patronize the place and since I’ve never stayed there before, nobody’ll think anything of it. I can just mention my niece is a little under the weather and they can bring meals to her room.”
“Excellent plan,” I applauded. I noticed Neva was looking a bit mulish and thought I’d better include her. “Don’t you think so?”
“I guess,” she admitted. “You aren’t going to be hanging over me all the time, are you?” she demanded of Porter. “I’m used to doing for myself.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He shrugged. “If you’re in so much danger you gotta disappear for the next couple days, I figure you’re smart enough to keep quiet and out of sight. I’m there just in case.” He looked at me. “Good enough for you?”
“Yes. Wonderful. You’re a good friend, Porter Anderson. The best.” I laid on praise like thick, overly sweet frosting atop a cake and meant every word.
His face turned a startling shade of crimson, but it was agreed.
Porter never did admit to me how he’d gotten beat up, but my imagination supplied the gory details. He’d gone after Lars Hansen. My fault. Winner or loser, I wished he hadn’t. I didn’t want a target painted on the back of any of my friends. On the Doyle & Howe Detective Agency?
That’s different. Danger is our business.
17
Porter showed me from the hotel via a side door I hadn’t known existed. Like an accomplished spy, he first checked around corners and side-to-side for any possible witnesses. He found none, no big surprise, which didn’t actually relieve me as much as one might think.
“Don’t you worry,” he said with a conspiratorial grin as he sent me on my way. “Me and Neva will leave from here, too. Nobody ever uses this door except for the help. Doubt anybody’ll be watching.”
He seemed to be getting into the spirit of the enterprise.
Time had gotten away from us while I’d been seeing to Neva’s situation. I suspected Porter had missed his dinner by this time. Anyway, full dark had fallen before I finally started home. Doorways and side alleys were blacker than a witch’s armpit. I don’t have a great deal of experience with such things, but I’d heard Gratton use the analogy to describe dark nights. Anyway, only a few areas were spotlighted by lamps shining from windows of shops staying open late. Shadows lurked, created by the fluctuating beams.
And now, I berated myself in disgust as I walked rapidly homeward, I’d succeeded in scaring myself. I touched the outside of my pocket, reassured by the feel of the .32 revolver resting within easy reach. I’d long since vowed I’d never be taken by surprise again. If accosted, it’d be the accoster who got the surprise.
So what about the overwhelming impression I had of being watched? My nerves shivered as though bitten by an invasion of insects. I know it’s not unique to sense such things. Even Gratton, as prosaic as he is, had once told me he could tell when someone was stalking him. Not by physically seeing or hearing such a person, but by the feel of the stalker’s malign touch.
I hurried my steps, stopping at a corner where I’d normally cut across a yard. It seemed as though trouble waited for me there. Big trouble, because when I glanced ahead, I saw the gigantic shadow of a man cast on a building’s wall, like a negative of a photograph. Something dangled from his massive hand.
Faster and faster, I lengthened my stride, taking the long way while keeping to the light and the sidewalks where people milled about in a before-supper rush. Finally, the sense of being watched faded. I even relaxed, certain I was safe with home only a couple blocks away.
Had he not been so large, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the man who joined the stream of walkers in front of me. At first glance there was nothing alarming about the way he shambled along, sometimes going a little faster, sometimes a little slower. I figured he was just another tired workman trying to get home after his shift. But then, during a break when no one else was near us, without notice he stopped in his tracks and spun toward me.
Embarrassing to say, I ran into him.
“Excuse me,” I said, horrified by my clumsiness. Preoccupation in watching for bogeymen leaping from dark alleyways had diverted attention from my immediate surroundings. Not a wise choice, as it turned out.
More embarrassing, as I stepped back, our feet somehow became tangled. I lost my balance, falling over and landing at his feet like a two-year-old toddler. To anyone watching, I’m sure he appeared the perfect gentleman as he reached down to help the awkward young woman to her feet.
“Thank ...,” I started to say as I looked into his muddy brown eyes. Evil eyes. What I saw glittering in their depths stopped my words. But his eyes weren’t the worst. Or maybe they were. Who knows, since I could only see the upper part of his face? A bandanna covered the rest from his nose down. The “accident” had been deliberate, I realized, flinching from the knowledge.
“Oh, no.” I ducked, trying to scoot backward and slapping at his hands as he succeeded in picking me up.
“A message for you, lady.” His voice rumbled a deep bass note. “And one for the O’Dell girl.”
He kept his hold on my elbows. I twisted, doing my best to break free. Didn’t work. The man had a grip like a giant vise.
I had no chance to reach my gun. No chance at all.
“Let me go,” I demanded, “or I’ll scream.” I might as well have saved my breath. He didn’t let go and I didn’t scream.
“The message is, no more nosing around for you. This is the only warning you get. You don’t, you’ll be sorry. Tell the girl to give back what she took and do as she’s told. She don’t, she’ll be sorry.”
My heart gave a jump. “What did she take?”
He shook his head. “She’s gotta give it back. Quick. She don’t, she’ll be sorry.”
“You’re repeating yourself,” I said.
“By tonight,” he added. “You tell her.”
He let go of my arms and, taking long, fast strides just short of a run, sped back the way he’d come.
As for me?
I must’ve stood stock-still for a full two minutes, air gusting from my lungs as though I’d run a footrace and trying desperately to recover my equilibrium until I could go on. People detoured around me as if I were some kind of bulky, dangerous-looking package dropped in the middle of the road.
One woman said, “Some people!” as she went around me.
One man said, “Get moving, sis. You’re blocking the sidewalk.”
And finally, I did. Move, I mean. At least I no longer troubled to watch for the bogeyman. I’d already met him.
When I arrived at the office, the shades were still drawn, although the overhead light was on. Probably not a good sign as I’d made a point of turning it off before Neva and I left. A golden glow shone on the walk outside. I drew both a shuddering breath and the pistol before unlocking the door.
I slipped into an empty room. No one leaped out at me. Monk’s rope lay uncoiled on top of his saddle, as if tossed there to get it out of the way. The fallen chair sat upright in its regular position in front of my desk. And Louis Duchene, naturally, given these circumstances, was no longer tied in it. All was quiet. Too quiet?
Just then the stairs leading to the apartment creaked as someone started down. I snatched up the .32 and pointed it toward the hallway. Fear struck at me like a jolt of electricity as I prepared myself to shoot.
What about Nimble? Why hadn’t she barked a greeting? Why hadn’t she come to greet me?
A man came through the door. I barely got my finger off the trigger in time.
“Monk!”
“China!” His exclamation was equally as heartfelt. “Where the devil have you been?” He stared at me. “Put that gun away before it goes off.”
“Are you all right?” I let the pistol hang at my side but I didn’t put it away. Not yet. “Where’s Nimble?”
He shook his head. “The dog’s in your room. Asleep on your bed.” He eyed my set face, perhaps, finally, seeing the bruises hidden beneath the layer of powder. “I’m fine. She’s fine. What did you expect?”
My voice shook. “Maybe to find you—or she—not so fine.”
He huffed out a slug of air. “Well, she is, and I am too. Relax, lambie. Your eyes look like chunks of polished turquoise. The door locked?”
I took a moment to remember before nodding.
“I’ll turn off the light,” Monk said, and despite his seeming calmness, I sensed great tension in his words. “You go on upstairs. Looks like we’ve got some talking to do. I figure you have at least one more question you’re chomping to ask.”
Sarcasm. A faint lift of his lips indicated a wry smile.
“And I’ve got one or two of my own,” he added. No surprise there.
“Yes. All right.” Exhaustion gripped me as, without argument, I obeyed Monk’s injunction to go up. I kept the pistol with me. It would stay with me, too, until we finished this affair with Neva and she was in the clear.
Not, in retrospect, that the pistol had done me a particle of good so far.
Nimble awakened at the sound of my voice and came to greet me, her whippy tail wagging in an ecstasy of joyful reunion. I kissed the top of her bony little head and lifted one droopy ear to whisper, “I was afraid he’d hurt you.”
Or killed her.
With the dog gamboling at my feet, I went to remove my coat and hat, brush my skirt and wash the grime from the street from my hands. By the time I left the bathroom, Monk was in the kitchen, puttering around with the stove and gathering sundry items out of the icebox.
“You can cook?” My mouth gaped open. He hadn’t lifted a finger, as far as I knew, in the months since I’d lived here. Well, made coffee, really strong coffee, a few mornings, and burned some eggs in a skillet. But not anything I’d call real cooking.
Monk snorted. “How do you think I managed before you came?”
“Well ... er ... Mavis?” I knew he cooked camp food, bacon and beans and cornbread and such, I just hadn’t thought about his everyday life.
Color rose over his cheekbones. I guess I wasn’t supposed to mention his longtime affair with Mrs. Atwood.
Acting as if he hadn’t heard my comment, he sat me down at the table and proceeded to concoct hash from leftover beef, cooked potatoes and an onion. I vow, you could’ve wiped my eyes off with a broom handle. He was just dishing up when we heard noise from below and Nimble, plenty alert now, set up a ruckus.
I leapt to my feet, hand diving into my pocket to retrieve the .32.
“Calm down,” Monk said. “It’s only Grat. I called Moseley’s Tavern and told him to come on over tonight. Whatever’s going on concerns him, too, right?”
My eyes bugged yet again. My uncle had overcome his aversion to using the telephone? Astonished by the idea that wonders can and do happen, I returned to the table. “You’re not going to talk me out of helping Neva O’Dell, you know.”
My uncle sighed as if he were tired to his very soul. “I figured as much, China. You’re worse than an old hound dog. Put you on the trail and you don’t stop till the game is treed.”
A promising concept. He sounded resigned and not likely to argue. My tension eased the least little bit. “Just like you.”
I thought I saw a smile turn up the corners of his mouth, but his mustache made it hard to tell. Anyway, Gratton came in just then, smelling strongly of beer and looking every bit as tired as Monk. They were earning every dime of their pay. Branston had been working them long hours.
“China,” Grat said. Gray eyes scanned my face, my form, as though checking for damage. “What have you been up to? Do you know Monk called Moseley’s looking for me? I figured you must be in a pile of trouble and here you are ...” His gaze sharpened. “Are you in trouble?”
Apparently he didn’t see Monk shaking his head. “Don’t know why you’re both so surprised I used the telephone. I ain’t an idiot, you know.”
I kept my mouth shut, but Grat said, a little heatedly, “No, just a stick-in-the-mud. As for China—”
My uncle ignored the stick-in-the-mud comment. “Easy, Grat. It’s no emergency. Not yet. Let’s hear what China has to say. Turns out there’s been some queer stuff going on around here.”
Grat sat down and fol
ded his arms over his chest. “Such as? Aside from this cock-and-bull story our office manager came up with to explain those bruises on her face.”
My uncle whirled from where he’d been turning his hash in order to brown, not burn, the other side. “Bruises you didn’t think to mention earlier, China. Which is why you got your face gobbed with powder.” He waved the pancake turner. “You better start from the beginning, lambie. What’s this all about? It isn’t every day,” he said as an aside to Grat, “I come home and find a man tied up tighter than a drum and lying on our office floor.” His mouth twisted as he elaborated. “His head wrapped in a tablecloth and him cussin’ fit to still a mother’s heart.”
“Harrumph,” I said. “He must’ve spat out the gag.”
“What?” Pure shock swept over Grat’s face. “Who? Why?” he demanded.
They stared at me. Even Nimble felt the weight of their gaze. She wriggled on her belly until she was hidden by the hem of my skirt.
How to begin? With a question, naturally.
“I take it Mr. Duchene didn’t free himself under his own power. You let him go, didn’t you?” I bent an accusing stare on my uncle. “I wish you hadn’t. Not yet.”
“Who?” Grat asked again, although I was sure he’d heard me perfectly well. “Duchene”—he looked toward Monk—“he’s the old geezer who owns the derby favorite, right? Or says he does.” Obviously, he remembered what I’d told him this afternoon.
“We talked to him and a Mrs. O’Dell the other night,” he went on.
“That’s the feller,” Monk said, and I nodded.
“I walked into the office when I got back from Corbin Park this afternoon and found Mr. Duchene rummaging through the hall closet,” I said. Did I sound self-righteous? Maybe. So what?
“The papers on my desk were scattered about. Nimble—” I felt her tremble against my ankles as I said her name—“like the brave girl she is, tried to defend me and her territory. I don’t know ... things were in a bit of an uproar. Nimble barking, the old man cursing and poking at her with an umbrella. Mercy, Mr. Duchene was so angry. I was afraid he’d hurt her. So I grabbed the stoop broom and swatted him with it.”
Four Furlongs Page 14
