Taking the High Road

by Morris Fenris

  With that, Noah buttoned his coat, grabbed his hat, and dashed out the door and away. Elvira, left behind, pulled facial muscles into what might have been a sardonic smile and returned to the day’s mail.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “And you never sleep?”

  “So the slogan says.”

  “Does that mean you, in particular?”

  A chuckle. “No, Mr. Harper, it means the Agency, in general. Me, I sleep, every chance I get.”

  Immediately upon leaving his mother and her stunning revelations, Noah had returned to Harper Hazard’s executive suite for information and files. From there, it was a short brisk walk to the local Pinkerton office. After stating his request, and his business there, he had been ushered into a back office and asked to wait.

  A rather gloomy, rather dingy place, thought Noah disparagingly, looking around. Not a patch on his own. Could this possibly be the stellar operation he had heard so much about?

  “Mr. Harper? John Yancey. Please, have a seat, sir.”

  Noah was a tall enough man for his time. But, distracted, he had to look up as a rugged six-footer entered the room. Business suit or not, there was that about the newcomer to suggest he might have ridden straight in off the range, with a Colt revolver strapped to his hip and a weather-beaten sombrero perched upon his head.

  Yancey settled into a wooden five-legged castered chair behind the desk and rocked back almost to the wall, comfortable and at ease. “So,” he said pleasantly, with a slight twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “We hustled all the preliminary get-to-know-you’s out of the way. What can I do for you, Mr. Harper?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Uh-huh. Most folks do, or they wouldn’t be seekin’ out a Pinkerton man.”

  “This involves—” Noah paused, choosing his words carefully, “—a great deal of money. Stolen money. Taken…to the other side of the country.”

  “Uh-huh. We talkin’ cash, here, Mr. Harper?”

  “Uh—no. Not exactly.”

  Activity in the rest of the first-floor agency hummed on around them: several potential clients entering to consult with detectives, others leaving, doors opening and closing, a raised voice, a stamp of feet. All the usual sounds that served as mere background noise for a fairly intensive interview.

  John Yancey looked straight across the intervening space at his own potential client, heavy brows furrowed, to say quietly, “I understand it’s hard lettin’ loose with facts, Mr. Harper. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me up front what’s goin’ on.”

  Reluctantly, Noah lay his thick file upon the desktop. “Facts. Very well, Mr. Yancey. I’ll apprise you of whatever facts you need to work with, and then you apprise me of what you will charge.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “She’s my sister,” began Noah, “and she’s stolen a big chunk of my birthright.”

  The story went on, in an increasingly impassioned tone, to recount events taking place over the past thirty years, and those more recent; the list of property snatched away, and its probable value; the escape, off the plane of the earth, to that back end of civilization in California.

  “How much farther could she go,” Noah demanded heatedly, “than to some barbaric place beyond the reach of the law?”

  “How much farther, indeed?” murmured the detective. He had leaned forward to take notes, writing something indecipherable in pencil on yellow paper. “Got any tintypes handy, or a wanted poster, so I can pick this desperado out of a crowd?”

  “No. I didn’t even know what was going on, until it was too late. However, I did almost bump into her one afternoon. She was leaving Gabe Finnegan’s office as I was entering his hallway. Come to think of it, she may have something going on with that old man. They did travel south and west together.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe. Then you can describe your sister?”

  “Half-sister,” Noah firmly corrected. “Absolutely I can describe her.”

  Yancey listened for a minute to the brief, resentful statement of color and carriage. “Pretty girl, then,” he surmised, at the end of it.

  “Pretty? Hardly. Quite average-looking. Like a damned cutpurse.”

  “Well, you would think that, Mr. Harper, you two bein’ related and all.” A flash of white teeth against taut, clean-shaven skin that was obviously more exposed to the outdoors than the inside of any building. “Now, the ord’nary feller might think somethin’ entirely different.”

  Noah shifted impatiently on his uncomfortable seat. “I suppose so. All right, there you have the gist of it. Are you interested in taking on my case?”

  Pencil down, paper aside, and another slow rock backward for consideration. This meant one leg akimbo over the other, booted ankle resting on knee; both elbows propped on chair arms so that fingers could steeple together; speculative level gaze that saw too much, too deep.

  John Yancey, who was no slouch at reading posture and expression as well as character, perceived that he was being somewhat led down the garden path by this fashionable young gentleman. Facts were facts, and the basic ones would hold true. But he suspected there was a lot that Mr. Noah Harper had not told him. Worse, that had been shaded or shelved entirely. Not the best of circumstances, by any means, even if intriguing.

  A smart man would drop this claim like a hot rock. A smart man would show this prospect the door. A smart man would forget this case had ever come forward. A smart man—

  “Yes, Mr. Harper,” he astonished himself by saying. “I’m interested in taking on your case.”

  IV

  If but given the chance, life could be such a rosy dream of happiness.

  There was, for example, the Academy, thriving and excelling, with enrollment currently numbering ten students. Prospects to add several others seemed quite favorable. Because so many transplanted Americans now sought their fortune in the gold fields of California, engaging another assistant, a Miss Jessica Burns, and then one more, Miss Sarah MacIntyre, had proven to be less complicated and less time-consuming than originally anticipated.

  Almost immediately upon arrival in San Francisco, Gabe had opened his own law office. What with continual disputes between hard-fisted, ham-handed miners over various claims, and the occasional divorce petition to be contested or murder suspect to be tried, business was booming. To the point where he had happily hired two more attorneys and a secretary to run the whole outfit.

  Then there was Bridget, bright and bouncy, effervescent Bridget. She had actually met one of those miners, a Forty-Niner, clumping out of her uncle’s new business digs as she was sashaying in.

  Both met in the middle with a “Whump!” and immediate, flustered apologies. Since that time, she and Maximillian Shaw had been stepping out together on a regular basis, practically inseparable.

  Gabe had done his best to check out the man’s pedigree, based on a smattering of information received and solicited. Many emigrants to this new world had left behind a whole other life, whole other families, and occasionally whole other names. Here, now, it was often necessary to simply take folks at their word. Gabe could only hope, for his niece’s sake, that Maximillian was the fine, upstanding citizen that he appeared to be. Bridget’s happiness—and, by association, Cecelia’s—came first, above all else.

  In matters concerning affairs of the heart, Gabe himself was doing quite well. A well-spoken, well-dressed, well-mannered bachelor, even one as well-preserved as he, would be welcome at every social event. To be known as a man about town having a stable background, with financial security, was the cherry on top of the sundae. Currently he was keeping company with a lady some ten years his junior, one Pensacola Rush, widowed by a mine cave-in.

  Yes, with this small tight-knit family apparently settled both romantically and monetarily, life could have been rosy. Was it not for that annoying fly in the ointment, Mrs. Augusta Kingsley, and her only slightly less annoying son, Josiah.

  More and more, Cecelia was beginning to regret her im
pulsive acceptance of Josiah’s proposal, and his small, cut-rate ring.

  “Not exactly a match made in heaven?” Gabe wanted to know, one evening after another of Mrs. Liang’s delicious light suppers.

  They were enjoying a rather balmy evening on the front porch of their farm style frame house, with a breeze wafting in off San Francisco Bay to sweep away the bothersome insects and noisy foot traffic to the wharf side gambling dens far enough away to provide only a mild hum as backdrop.

  Bridget had been invited to join them, with their plate of sugar cookies from Mrs. Liang’s pantry, and a pitcher of tea halfway between semi-cool and room temperature. Bridget, however, tendered a polite refusal; Max was taking her to the Lime Street Theatre production of “That Springtime Belle,” and she wouldn’t be returned home till quite late.

  Whereupon her uncle complained, with almost laughable consternation, “Jumpin’ Jiminy, this thing between ’em is gettin’ dead serious!”

  “Not so much,” Cecelia admitted now, in answer to his question. “Are any, ever?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ain’t had the experience, sad to say. But I can arrange to have him taken out for you, if he’s bein’ worrisome. Here, darlin’, hand me another o’ them cookies, will you?” For several minutes he chomped happily away, while Cecelia settled more comfortably into her high-backed chair and listened to the night call of crickets. “What is it exactly botherin’ you about your intended, Cecie?”

  In the soft semi-darkness her eyes flashed blue as stars. “Money.”

  “Money? As in, you want his?”

  “Money. As in, he wants mine.”

  That brought Gabe up short. “The devil you say. He ain’t got enough, honey?”

  Disgruntled, she shook her head. “I’m beginning to think not. Several times he’s mentioned wanting to look over the Academy’s books—because I’m just a silly little woman, after all, with no head for business, and he wants to make sure I’m not being taken advantage of by someone, somewhere.”

  “Hmmph. I’m not likin’ the sound of that.”

  “Nor do I, Gabe. Honestly, I suspect that terrible mother of his keeps pushing him, but now he’s got the idea in his head and he won’t let it go. And both of them continue to talk about how I won’t be working, anyway, after we’re married. Because it just isn’t right for a lady in society to earn her own living.”

  “That boy has a lot to learn about life,” Gabe considered. “And women. Josiah ain’t good-lookin’ enough to be that judgmental.”

  “I’ve told him that you’re my attorney, and you’ve given me very sound financial advice in all my affairs. But it doesn’t seem to make a dent in his thinking.”

  “Damn,” muttered Gabe. “With that kinda attitude, God forbid he should ever find out about the Catherine, honey.”

  “I know, I know,” agreed Cecelia unhappily. “But I have that awful deadline hanging over my head…Gabe, why on earth would my parents have left such a decree in their wills?”

  His wicker chair creaked slightly as he shifted position to reach for his glass of lemonade—flavored with just a few tablespoons of sweet Kentucky bourbon. Or maybe it was the other way around. “I tried to talk ’em out of it, I surely did. But their minds were made up. They thought they were doin’ the best they could for you.”

  “Well, I haven’t met any other man that I’d remotely consider letting into my life. At first, I thought Josiah would be fine. But I’m finding, as time goes on, that I have less and less patience with him and his notions of how a woman should behave. Not to mention that the very idea of having to share a room with him—and a bed!—well, it just makes my stomach curdle.”

  Deeply concerned, Gabe studied his ward. “Even an old buffalo like me knows that ain’t no sound footin’ for a marriage, sweetheart. I didn’t realize things were that grievous.”

  A moth had fluttered over to land near the kerosene lamp. Carefully, Cecelia brushed the tiny fragile creature onto a newspaper and moved it aside, out of harm’s way.

  “To me they are, Gabe. Perhaps some other girl would accept Josiah’s personality traits as just—well, just minor complications to be endured. I don’t think I can. And yet—if I simply must be married to someone…”

  “Oh, honey, I blame myself for some of this. Reckon I shoulda squired you out and about more, when we first got to San Fran, ’steada bein’ so concerned with findin’ a place to live and set up shop. You just ain’t been exposed to enough men around here, that’s all.”

  Upset though she was, she managed a small forlorn laugh. “Ironic, isn’t it? My mother’s profession had men clamoring for her favors; mine sets me apart in a remote schoolhouse with only children for company.”

  “Well, we can fix this right now,” Gabe insisted, sitting up straight as if ready to take action then and there. “We got—what, a coupla months yet before the sands in the hourglass run out? Hell, we can move mountains in that time. Shouldn’t be too hard findin’ you a decent fellah.”

  “Speakin’ of decent fellahs,” came his niece’s voice from the front walk, “Max has brought me safely home, Uncle Gabe. We’re thinkin’ of joinin’ you, if that’s all right.”

  “Why, o’ course it’s all right, honey.” Gabe looked up to greet her with pleasure. “Happy to see you back at a decent hour. Climb right on up those steps and have a seat.”

  “On the settee, Kitten,” suggested Max, “right beside me.”

  The smile that Bridget bestowed upon her miner swain was so bright, so blindingly sweet, as to thicken any watcher’s throat with emotion and dim any watcher’s view with tears. Cecelia found herself realizing, rather disconsolately, that a similar warmth of sentiment might have helped save her relationship with Josiah. Instead, that relationship was rapidly crumbling away into dust, thanks to his it’s-my-way-or-nothing attitude.

  “Harumph,” said Gabe, in his bullfrog tone, as if he had guessed the direction of his protégé’s thoughts. “Well, now, you two—didja have a good time at this theatre you went to?”

  Not by the most charitable eye could Maximillian Shaw ever be considered handsome, not even in a prepossessing, dapper sort of style. Heavy blonde beard and shaggy blonde hair, both neatly trimmed for tonight’s occasion; blue-gray eyes set in lines of good humor; strapping big body hardened and toughened by too much rough work with pans and rockers at his claim. A recent fortuitous strike had guaranteed that he would, from here on, be provided with economic security, allowing him to retire from the gold fields while he sought other prospects in town.

  That was the luckiest day of his life, he often boasted. First, finding the glittery vein of gilt whipsawing through the mine shaft walls; later bumping into the woman he had waited all his life to meet.

  No subterfuge could be felt in dealing with Mr. Shaw. What you saw was what you got: a blunt, forthright, loyal, and honest man, a forty-niner with some weight and experience behind him, who was head-over-heels smitten with his lady love.

  A man, reflected Gabe, good to have on your side in a bar fight.

  “Oh, Uncle Gabe, it was wonderful,” sighed Bridget.

  She was decked out in her finest outfit, a soft elegant green with elbow sleeves and a multitude of feminine ruffles that swished when she walked. Not only did she feel beautiful, but Max had assured her many times that she was beautiful. How could any girl resist such adulation?

  “The place was packed with people, but we were that close to the stage we could see everything that went on. And, sure enough, but it was a lovely play, indeed.”

  Cecelia smiled. Another rhapsodic minute and her friend would be into the “Faith and begorrah!” stage of her romance. It had happened before. However, she sensed that this time was different. That it would not happen again.

  “And you, Max?” she asked now. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

  He returned her smile, but his gaze immediately swiveled back to his companion. Under the camouflage of Bridget’s full skirts, his big calloused hand ha
d captured and enclosed hers. Amazing, how sensitive a woman’s palm, bare of mitts or gloves, could be! “I’d enjoy anything, as long as Miss Finnegan was beside me.”

  If she were able, Bridget would be flashing dimples. “Sure, we had a grand time. And you two? What were you after bein’ so serious about?”

  “My impending marriage,” Cecelia answered. “Or not.”

  “Or not? You mean—Mr. Josiah might not be the one for you, after all?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder. Might be buyer’s remorse, Bridge.” Then, deliberately changing the subject to something more pleasant, “Would you and Max like a glass of lemonade?”

  “Thank you, Miss Cecelia, but it’s gettin’ late and I’d better be on my way.” Max released his most agreeable clasp to stand, somewhat awkwardly in his ill-fitting suit, close by. “I thank you for a very enjoyable evenin’, Kitten. Would you—uh—might I come by tomorrow, if you’re free,” he went on, in a lower, confidential voice, “and take you to supper at the Fillmore Hotel?”

  Bridget glanced quickly at her uncle for approval, which was given not begrudgingly but rather with resignation. “I’d like that, Max. It’ll be pure pleasure, eatin’ out on food cooked and served by someone else.”

  “Okay, then. About 7:00? Okay, then.” Grinning, the infatuated miner took his leave by bumbling along to the front step. Nothing as bold as a good-night kiss, not even chastely on the cheek, with interested spectators to take in the scene, but at least a shy little wave that spoke volumes.

  As did the sigh of pure delight that lifted Bridget’s maidenly bosom, along with her green ruffles. After Max had departed, to the sound of tuneless but cheerful whistling as he headed off down the hill, she murmured something about being tired and drifted away, up to her room. There to dream romantic dreams, no doubt, while she re-lived every moment of tonight’s engagement, from start to finish.

  A comfortable silence engulfed the front porch. From somewhere off in the distance, a wooded patch on the city’s edge, came the lonely hoot of an owl; from another direction, the city proper, the barking of several dogs. Gabe had refilled his lemonade glass with another jigger of bourbon and set a lighted match to the very fine hand-rolled cigar retrieved from an inside pocket.