Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  The mother cried a protest. The boy hollered—loudly.

  The man didn’t even react to them, which is when, with a chill freezing me where I stood, I realized he was focused on me.

  Why? What did he want?

  My innate cowardice coming to the fore, I stepped to the other side of Mrs. Flynn, dragging Nimble with me, and using the woman’s considerable size and flinty-eyed stare as a bulwark between the man and me.

  My hand went to my pocket, ready to draw the .32.

  The man paused in mid-stride, then came on.

  Fortunately for me, by then the mother’s protests had drawn attention. The bullying man’s focus changed. He glanced around, saw several people looking at him and pointing their fingers. Perhaps a bit of cowardice wisely afflicted him, too, because after the slightest of hesitations, he walked on without stopping, brushing past us and almost running.

  I choked out an audible gasp of relief, and gradually became aware of Mrs. Flynn speaking to me.

  “I’m sorry?” I blinked at her. Up at her, I should say, she being several inches taller than I. “What did you say?”

  “I said, why was he coming at you, Miss Bohannon? Any fool could see he had evil intentions. What changed his mind was the little boy crying and too many people watching.” She sounded quite huffy.

  “And you. But I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. Ever so slowly, I took my hand from my pocket.

  “Why?” Mrs. Flynn was nothing if not blunt. “What’s he got against you?”

  What did he? The exact question I was asking myself. It’s a bit disconcerting to be a target and not even know why.

  “I don’t know,” I replied after a moment. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “I think,” she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice, “I’d better walk with you, wherever you’re going. We don’t want him coming back.”

  “No. We don’t,” I said, perfectly willing to use the royal “we” in this case. “Although I’m only going to the post office.” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Maybe I should go back to the office and lock myself in.”

  “Indeed you won’t.” She sounded affronted. “ ’Tis a sorry day indeed when a respectable woman can’t walk by herself on the streets of Spokane.”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t disagree. “But—”

  “No buts. I shall act as your bodyguard, and in return, perhaps you can tell me what you’ve done to increase business at the Doyle & Howe Detective Agency since you’ve arrived here. I could use your advice.”

  “Me? Increase business? I don’t think—”

  She cut me off in jig time. “Oh, yes. You. Word gets around in the business community, you know, and everyone is aware the detectives’ business has improved a great deal lately. Most everyone is crediting you.”

  My cheeks warmed. “I don’t deny updating their billing practices has helped with cash flow, but if business has improved, it must be because the men are getting better at catching out bad people.”

  “Nonsense. From what I hear, they’ve always been good detectives. But people are talking now of better, more credible and documented results. Come, my dear.” With a sharp glance around, she took my elbow and scooted me along at a faster pace. “You help me, and I’ll give you a”—she winced, then went on bravely—“a thirty-percent discount on your meals. And if you bring someone else to lunch, I’ll give you both fifty percent.”

  Puffing with the effort of talking and almost running to match her stride at the same time, I glanced up at her in surprise. “You’re very generous.”

  She grinned. “You know people, Miss Bohannon. Important people. I’m hoping some of the women you bring will be society ladies with plenty of money to spend.”

  We reached the post office in record time, Nimble flopping down at my feet to rest with her tongue hanging out. I handed over my mail.

  The three of us continued on, Mrs. Flynn completing a mundane purchase or two, and then we headed home. Not quite, thank goodness, so rapidly. When we reached the office again, I’d made up my mind.

  “I’m acquainted with one or two fairly influential ladies who might take lunch with me,” I conceded before we said our good-byes. “Mrs. Biddlestrom, the banker’s wife, for one. Perhaps Miss Fern Atwood, an actress I know, for another. She’s quite the toast of the town just now. But really, I’m sure it’s more a matter of keeping tight control of your bookkeeping. Paying bills on time and receiving all the money you earn. It would pay if you placed an advertisement in the newspapers. Hand out flyers to your customers, perhaps telling of a special day for special items, like ice cream or chocolate cake. I believe you’re well on your way already.”

  Perhaps, if I ever saw Mrs. Branston again, I could also approach her on Mrs. Flynn’s behalf.

  Mrs. Flynn’s eyes lit up. “There. I knew you’d help. Why, what you’ve already suggested has been worth the chance of getting stuck with a knife!”

  “Stuck with a knife?” Blinking wide, I pulled Nimble closer as I hurriedly shoved the key in the lock.

  “Why yes, Miss Bohannon. Didn’t you see the knife in the man’s hand? He had the blade up his sleeve and the hilt hidden in his palm. If you hadn’t stepped behind me when you did—”

  Head abuzz, I stumbled into the office.

  19

  After collapsing onto my office chair, it took a few minutes before I unfroze enough to remove Nimble’s leash and let her into the backyard to do her business. Had Mrs. Flynn been joshing me about that evil-looking man and a knife? I didn’t really think so. She didn’t strike me as the joshing type.

  After a while, I went upstairs, put my hat and jacket away, washed my face and re-powdered my bruise. Better. Or so I told myself.

  At least Mrs. Flynn had given me something to think about besides Neva O’Dell and her problems. Which, above expectation, had also, apparently, become my problems.

  This time, before I turned the closed sign over to the open side, I left the top drawer of my desk ajar and placed the .32 in a position where it was easy to palm. In fact, I practiced once or twice, just to be sure. And this time, when the door rattled a warning before opening, I had my hand on the grip.

  Believe me, I breathed no more freely when my next visitor entered.

  “Miss Bohannon,” said Mr. Warren Poole in a stern tone, as if he were speaking to a recalcitrant schoolboy, “I want a word with you.”

  Me timbers, as they say, shivered, while Nimble, taking action on her own, scrambled into the kneehole to hide. I expect she didn’t like his tone of voice any more than I did.

  He looked down his long, thin nose at us in obvious disapproval. His grape-green eyes were cold. Well, he didn’t intimidate me! Or not much.

  “Mr. Poole. How may I help you?” Ice dripped from my voice. I got to my feet. “Or have you come to complain about my dog?”

  “Dog?” he said vaguely, as though he’d never heard of such an animal. “What about your dog?”

  “Nothing. That’s my point.”

  We stared at each other for long seconds.

  He blinked first. Then cleared his throat. Preened his short beard. Said portentously, “I’m here at the request of a certain Mrs. Hazel O’Dell and her father, Mr. Louis Duchene, with whom I believe you’re acquainted.”

  I choked back a gasp. Really? Mr. Louis Duchene? Had he mentioned to Poole how he’d come to meet me? Or said how he’d broken into our office and I’d caught him rifling through our things? Had he told how I’d hog-tied him and stuck a gag in his mouth?

  “Also, I might add,” Poole said, nodding as though agreeing with himself, “I’m here under the aegis of the Spokane Horse Racing Commission, for whom the proprietors of this detective agency work.”

  I took a moment to decipher what he’d said, then snorted audibly. As if I didn’t know whose desk I was sitting at.

  “And?” I snapped my mouth shut on anything further. Like Gratton says, when it comes to interrogation, let the other party speak first.
And answer questions with a question—if we ever actually got to the crux of the matter.

  “Shall we sit?” Poole asked, already pulling up a chair. The same one Porter had occupied earlier. I wondered, given the abuse he’d subjected it to, if the legs would hold under its new occupant. Frankly, I didn’t much care.

  Seating myself, I waved my hand in invitation. Amazing. One of my suspects had come to me and, although he frightened me a little, I considered this too good of an opportunity to pass up. I’d stand my ground. No running out the door screaming for help.

  Anyway, he’d made no threatening gestures. Yet.

  “How can I help you?” I asked again once he’d gotten settled, legs crossed, his hat resting on a cocked knee. He cleared his throat.

  “Mrs. O’Dell came to me this morning,” he said, “saying her daughter has run away. She thinks you had a hand in the child’s disappearance.”

  “Really,” I said and shut my mouth on anything further. I forgot to form it as a question.

  After a long moment, in which I’m certain he expected a denial, an excuse, a confession, or something besides silence, he said, “Yes. But worse, at least in the racing commission’s point of view, the daughter seems to have stolen a horse, Mercury, along with some other things, from her mother. Mercury is the odds-on favorite entered in the derby, to take place on Sunday at the fairgrounds. Perhaps you’ve heard your uncle speak of the race.”

  As though I couldn’t possibly know such a thing without hearing of it from my uncle. Bah!

  “It is,” he added when I remained silent, “an important event in this area. A large segment of the population, sporting men or not, are interested in the outcome. Plus, it brings a great deal of money into the community as a whole.”

  Especially him, if my speculation was correct.

  “Do you mean gambling, Mr. Poole?” Maybe he’d admit his interest.

  He hesitated. “Among other things, yes. But not only gambling. More importantly for the city, people also stay in the hotels, they eat in the restaurants, they shop in the stores, all profitable for Spokane citizens.”

  Including him, no doubt.

  “Yes. I suppose so.” He’d get no argument from me on this.

  “Which is why we, not only Mrs. O’Dell and Mr. Duchene, but the entire city needs the horse back in time for the race.”

  I sat waiting, not saying anything, as Nimble, hidden from Poole’s sight, leaned against my knees. I gave her ear a scratch.

  Poole frowned at the small sound. He shifted in his seat, lifted his hat and uncrossed his legs, recrossing them the other way. His whole body tensed. “Well?” he said after perhaps ten or fifteen seconds had ticked past.

  I widened my eyes at him. “Excuse me. Did you ask a question?”

  Under the force of a frown, his heavy eyebrows puckered, nearly to meet in the middle. “Do not trifle with me, Miss Bohannon. Where is the horse? I demand you tell me.”

  “I beg your pardon. Demand?”

  Without thinking, I’d folded my hands in my lap. Now I reached into the open drawer again and, hidden by the bulk of the desk, transferred the pistol to my lap. If necessary, all I had to do was lift it up. Comforting, to say the least.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea where Mercury is, Mr. Poole. What on earth makes you think I do?”

  He shifted impatiently, the chair squeaking a protest. “Don’t lie to me. Mrs. O’Dell tells me her daughter has, for some reason neither she nor her father can ascertain, come to you for some very ill-advised ‘help’ before. They told me you even took it upon yourself to force the child into viewing her brother’s body, giving her nightmares until she can’t think straight. Although, according to Mrs. O’Dell, her daughter is not quite ‘all there.’ Now, apparently, she’s a common thief, to boot. And you, miss, right along with her, if you don’t speak up immediately.”

  I could actually feel the blood draining from my brain. My vision went fuzzy. I wished Porter were here to supply the swearwords I wanted to use on this horrible man, on Neva’s twice-horrible mother, on her equally horrid grandfather. Everything I’d ever learned about questioning suspects flew from my head. Thank the Lord, I was too stunned, at first, to as much as open my mouth.

  In the kneehole under the desk, Nimble growled.

  “Get out,” I finally managed to say. My lips felt icy, making speech difficult. “You haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about. To come in here and accuse me of lying, of horse stealing, of I don’t even know what else, is beyond enough. I want you to leave. Now. While you still can.”

  I rose to my feet, the pistol in plain sight. I watched with pleasure as his confidence abruptly waned.

  “See here,” he said, rising so quickly his hat fell from his knee and went spinning across the floor. “Put that gun away.”

  “And what? Put it away so you can slap me around like another of your minions has already tried to do? Or do you have a knife ready to stab me with, like the failed attempt by your man only a few minutes ago?”

  He gaped in a most unattractive fashion. “What are you talking about, you fool woman?”

  “You know exactly what. Don’t try acting like you don’t. I know you for what you are.” My gun hand shook a little. He watched it happen, his eyes flickering.

  “Hold on.” His feet moved, inching him toward the door. “Are you implying I hired someone to slap you? To stab you? Have you been stabbed or struck, Miss Bohannon?”

  Mr. Poole was a decent actor. It almost sounded as though his astonishment was real.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Poole? Haven’t you gotten the full report as yet?”

  We stood glaring at each other, a tableau of distrust. Nimble came out of her hidey-hole to stand beside me, her little white teeth showing in a snarl.

  Our standoff was interrupted as the door swung wide. Gratton slammed in, smelling of whiskey and with blood spilled down the front of his shirt and jacket. His fingers were already twisting the buttons on his collar.

  His mouth gaped at the sight of the pistol I held aimed at Mr. Poole. His storm-gray eyes blinked. His jaw set and he sucked in a deep breath through his nose.

  Nimble backed a tail’s length farther behind me.

  “Somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked in the mildest tone imaginable. His gaze shifted from me to Warren Poole.

  “A misunderstanding, I believe,” Poole hastened to say.

  “Not a misunderstanding.” I shook my head. “He just accused me of, among other things, being a liar and a horse thief.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the two men he’d hired to intimidate me.

  “He what?” Grat didn’t sound so mild now. He rocked a little on his feet.

  “Listen,” Poole said, a trace of desperation in his voice. He could see the expression on Grat’s face as well as I could. “I just ...”

  “Going on and on,” I continued, “about how important it is to find Mercury, in order to insure the success of the Spokane Derby, the racing commission, and the entire city of Spokane.”

  “It is important,” Poole said, and Gratton, darn him, nodded.

  “Forgive me if I’m not impressed. All of this is in total disregard of Neva O’Dell’s rights and well-being,” I added scornfully. “You see, Mrs. O’Dell and her riffraff piece of ...”

  “China,” Grat said in warning.

  “... scum father, along with their emissary, Mr. Poole, have yet to even inquire as to where Neva might be or if she’s all right. I can’t tell them and wouldn’t if I could, but do they care whether she’s dead in some alley, or perhaps her body thrown in the river? Doesn’t sound like it to me. And these are the kind of people whose word Mr. Poole is only too eager to believe. Why, I don’t believe he even knows Mrs. O’Dell picked his pocket yesterday.” I forced a laugh, high-pitched and a little out of control. “Or that the money she used to finance Mercury’s entry fee was acquired only ten seconds earlier from his own purse.”

  “What?”
Poole and Gratton said together.

  “How did you know I—” Poole stopped. Perhaps he was remembering the last time he’d seen me and what had gone on just before. Comprehension dawned.

  “Disillusioned?” I asked him. “Or what does it take?”

  “You ... she ...” He stopped, his eyebrows drawing down into yet another scowl. “It appears I may have been duped. I’d better go,” he said stiffly, applying a demeanor of polite rectitude. A bit difficult for a man attempting to retrieve his hat from where it had rolled into a corner.

  “It does,” I said. “You should.”

  “I do beg your pardon, Miss Bohannon.” He gave the slightest of bows aimed in my general direction. “I sincerely hope you can expunge this incident from your memory. Forget it ever happened.”

  The nerve of the man. I had no words.

  “China,” Grat said, “can’t you—”

  Pooh. I knew what he wanted me to say. After all, this man was one of his employers. And, drat it, influential in the city.

  “Think of all this as an unfortunate misconception?” He could call it an apology if he wanted, but I wasn’t sorry for a single word I’d said. And I’d certainly never forget any of his.

  Poole, with what dignity he could muster, sidled from the building.

  “What other things?” Gratton asked.

  “Excuse me?” I looked at him blankly, shivered, and finally deposited the pistol back in the drawer.

  “What other charges did he lay against you?” Oblivious to the disgusting state of his jacket and shirt, he gathered me into his arms. “Shh,” he said with a soft Irish brogue, “don’t you fret.”

  Mercy, he stank. Even so, I liked being held.

  “I don’t really remember.” Not true. I remembered all too well. “I was too angry to pay attention beyond the lying and the horse-stealing accusations. I still can’t believe he didn’t even ask the most important question. Or what should’ve been most important.”