“Oh, what a shame,” pouted Augusta, whether due to the state of Mrs. Harper’s health or, more likely, being deprived of the chance to air dirty laundry.
“However…” Forking up another bite of rather gummy mashed potatoes, he stared at the glob as if perusing a stock-market report. “I do think it only just to let you know that Miss Powell is not all what she seems.”
A stare. A blink. “What exactly do you mean, Mr. Harper?”
“Confidentially,” he leaned forward in imitation of her own earlier maneuver, “were I to plan my marriage, it certainly wouldn’t be to Cecelia Powell.” Understandable, under the circumstances.
“She’s quite lovely,” put in a defensive Josiah at this point. “And well off financially, besides. Two attributes any man might look for in a wife.”
“Ah, but looks and money aren’t everything, are they? Far more important is a woman’s—reputation,” he finished up in a whisper.
Augusta gasped; her spoon hit the table with a solid thunk. “You see, Josiah.” She turned to her son with an unpleasant mixture of cunning, ruthlessness, and malevolence. “I warned you about this girl, did I not? We have no information as to her family, her antecedents, or her background. It’s as if she was born the minute she arrived in port, and that’s all we know.”
Noah shook his head in apparent affinity. “From what I understand, she can be a devious one. If you were to pull away now, Mr. Kingsley, in my opinion you would be well out of a potentially nasty situation. Surely there are other young ladies available in this city for a more—suitable—match.”
There, reflected Noah, observing the Kingsley pair with utmost satisfaction. That ought to give the little strumpet her comeuppance. Dare to fight him on any matter, would she? She’d soon learn when to knuckle under and give in. Damn it. He wanted those shares!
Plates emptied and cleared, the luncheon finished on a less than happy note. Noah saw his guests to their carriage, thanked them for their companionship, and moved on down the street to a welcoming saloon. After today’s hard work, he deserved a reprieve and some relaxation.
From his corner table in the Hotel Alexandria’s dining room, John Yancey sat sipping a cup of hot coffee and, with dark thoughtful eyes, watched his client go. Once again, his ability to stay quiet and unobtrusive, to wait for an outcome while almost disappearing into the woodwork, had stood him in good stead. Today, he had learned a great deal.
He had learned, for instance, that Noah Harper had a habit of showing up somewhere when least expected. Witness the hasty trip west from Boston. He had learned that Noah Harper took little notice of those around him. Probably not worth his bother. He had learned that Noah Harper’s voice could be loud and carrying. Lots of information garnered that way. He had learned that his own opinion of Noah Harper’s character had been reinforced: the man was not to be trusted.
Worst of all, he would bet money on high odds that it was Noah Harper who had accosted and attacked Cecelia Powell two days ago. Mr. Harper would pay for that.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Well, how ’bout that—what’re the chances of bumpin’ into a fellah from Boston way out here in Californiay?”
Noah turned slightly from his slouched-forward stance at the bar. After some searching across several streets near the wharf, he had wandered into the Nugget Saloon. The name seemed auspicious, for what he had in mind, and its sign advertised drinks and girls. Exactly what he was ready for, in that order.
He’d gotten the first: a jigger of straight-up whiskey, best on the shelf. Now, to be deterred from his pursuit of the second set his teeth on edge.
“Yancey,” he acknowledged with a slight nod.
Approaching with his usual easy-going southern stride, John caught the bartender’s attention. “A bottle of your finest, sir, if you please. Just add it to my friend’s bill. He and I have some catchin’ up to do.”
“Ballsy,” murmured his friend with a sardonic smile. “Friends, are we?”
“Betcher bumpus. C’mon over here, Mr. Harper, and join me at the table.”
With an indifferent shrug, Noah followed his one-time hired help. Choosing a likely candidate from the Nugget’s stable of available females could wait till later. After all, the hours of his whole afternoon were free, just as he was. Out from under his mother’s thumb, for once, and plenty of cash to enjoy himself without repercussions.
“Pleasant trip west?” John Yancey wanted to know. He poured a healthy slug for both of them, pushed the glass across to share, and leaned back in his chair to consider what he now recognized as his foe.
“Pleasant enough. Fast, anyway, which suited my purpose.”
“Huh. Which was?”
Noah emptied his serving with one hasty gulp, waited till the stuff burned its way down through his gullet, then poured another. “You know exactly what it was, Mr. Yancey, since it was you who let me know what I needed to know.”
A lift of one wide shoulder in the smooth frock coat. “I owed you that much, Mr. Harper. Findin’ the lady was what I had contracted t’do.”
“Well, then. Here we are.”
“Yessir. Here we are. Salud.” John raised his glass in a semi-toast, and then sipped gingerly. Too much in the way of spirits tended to cloud a man’s thinking, and he knew he needed to keep his wits about him. Noah Harper might be a snake in the grass, but he was a cunning snake.
“I’m surprised to see you still here, in the city.”
“No more surprised than I am. Been lookin’ the place over, though, and I may just settle down.”
The one-sided lift to the mouth bordered on a sneer. “Rough, tough, and hard, eh? The lack of civilization must suit you.”
“Oh, civilization—what’s that mean, anyway?” John countered calmly. “Location’s got nothin’ to do with it. Hell, you can find men in New York just as crooked and corrupt as in the backwaters. Or in Boston, even.”
“Women, as well.” Noah refilled his glass, drained it, and added more. Good stuff. And the more he drank, the better it tasted. “Have another, John. May I call you John?”
Just Plain John raised an eyebrow. “If it so pleases you, Noah. Got enough at the moment, thanks. Maybe later.”
“Well. I intend to celebrate, and that may mean drinking myself into oblivion at some point. I’ve accomplished most of what I came here to accomplish. Another day or two, and I can shake the dust of San Francisco from my boots.”
“San Fran might be as happy as you are to part company.” Curiously, John eyed the man sitting loose and languid across the table. “I did my job for you, Noah, just like you asked; and you paid me handsomely for it. So I’m thinkin’ by now you’ve been able to talk to this Miss Powell, and persuade her ’round to your manner of lookin’ at things?”
“Talk. Hmmph. You might consider it that. She’s betrothed, can you believe it? That strumpet, born to a madam in her own whorehouse, managed to take some local sucker for a ride and get herself betrothed.”
“Betrothed?” News to John. Not very welcome news. Somewhere along the line, he’d missed that very vital fact. Along with the part about the whorehouse. Truth? Or lie? “Best way to get respectable, though, wouldn’t you reckon?”
“Not anymore,” said Noah in a smooth, silky voice. “I’d be willing to bet, not anymore.”
Along the stalwart line of the agent’s jaw, a muscle set and unset and reset itself: teeth clenched, retort silenced. “Sounds like you took some action on your own.”
“Oh, I did indeed. Since little Miss Jezebel is still refusing to return my rightful property, I’m having to resort to other measures.”
“Other measures?”
“Listen and learn, Detective Yancey; listen and learn.” Smug as sin, Noah went on to describe his invitation to and deliberate encounter with Josiah Kingsley and the dreadnaught Augusta. “Oh, I was very careful about what I told them. But it was enough to shock the future husband. As to the future mother-in-law, I think she wa
s absolutely delighted by the news that Cecelia Powell isn’t at all the sort of person to be marrying into her family.”
“Figure enough hints of scandal will break off the engagement, do you?”
Noah jeered. “If he’s a man at all, he’ll dump her like the foul piece of garbage she is.”
The wooden chair creaked under John’s weight as he shifted position. Wait. Just wait. You’re patient as Job, remember? “Seems like you’re playin’ God with people’s lives, Noah.”
“Playing God with her life? As she did, when she stole my inheritance and fled the country? Just getting back what is due me, no matter how I have to go about it.”
A couple of rowdy miners suddenly entered the saloon, swinging the batwing doors wide, and clomped over to the bar. “Beer!” called one. “Lotsa beer!” called the second. A third, trailing behind, added his voice: “A whole damn barrel of beer. We just made a strike!”
“Lucky bastards,” muttered Noah, watching with envy. “Probably one of those mines listed in the conglomerate that belongs to me.”
John scooted his chair forward, both long lean hands flat on the table. “So you had it out with the lady in question, but you didn’t quite get what you wanted yet.”
“I did indeed have it out with her.” That shark’s tooth smile again. “You keep making a mistake, though, John; you keep referring to her as a lady. I told you: she’s a goddamned little bitch.”
“Ahuh. Paid a visit to her at the schoolhouse, no doubt.” John’s voice was casual; just making friendly conversation with a former business associate. But his left hand, resting on one knee, had curled into a tight fist that might bode ill for anyone coming in contact with it.
“Dead on. Caught her all alone and put the fear of God into her, that I did.”
“You don’t say. How’d you go about doin’ that? Just for point of reference, that is, ’case I ever want to copy your methods.”
Chuckling, Noah swigged down another helping of whiskey. The bottle was now half-empty, and he had consumed almost all of that half by himself. “Smacked her around a little,” he boasted. “Just enough to show her who’s boss. Now that she knows enough to be afraid of me, I expect her to turn over my birthright in the next day or so.”
“Sweet for you, Noah.” Abruptly John rose, pushing back his chair so that the legs scraped across the wooden floor. “Listen, let’s go for a little walk outside, whatdya say? Got somethin’ to talk over with you, away from a nosy audience—” The tilt of his head indicated those raucous miners, living it up with pipe dreams and pirouettes. “And you could use some fresh air, sober up some. C’mon, Noah.”
“I’m not drunk, Agent.”
“No, I can see that. But you’re on your way, fellah, ’specially if you keep on imbibin’ as you have done.”
He considered that. Then, shrugging, he climbed somewhat unsteadily to his feet and followed the detective, through the bat-wings, out onto the plank walkway, and farther down the street where foot traffic diminished to being nonexistent and only an empty warehouse stood blank-windowed and silent.
“Fresh air, hmmph,” grumbled Noah, stumbling along. “Smelly fish air, more like, in this—hey!”
For John suddenly grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him headlong into the alley.
“You picayune, mean-minded, no-’count, worthless, connivin’ son-of-a-bitch,” John ground out between his teeth, and let loose with a haymaker, right into the gut.
The wind was knocked completely out of him, and Noah toppled over like a felled tree. No chance to recover. Lunging, John took hold of his coat lapels and pulled him upright.
“I heard your whole conversation with those Kingsleys today,” he snarled. “More to the point, I saw what you did to Cecelia Powell. Did that make you feel more like a man, Harper, beatin’ up on a defenseless woman? Well, did it?”
Furious, he shook Noah much as a rabid dog might shake its prey. Noah’s head bobbled loosely on his shoulders as he attempted to answer.
“You’re a damned liar and a bully. And it’s past time for you to leave town. So this is how it’s gonna be, Harper. You scuttle on back to your hotel, like the cockroach you are, pack your bags, and head out on the first ship leavin’ the bay. I ever hear of you botherin’ Miss Powell again, I’ll track you down and carve you open from your belly to your balls. You got that, Harper? You got it?”
Noah, dangling helplessly from his assailant’s grip, could only moan in assent.
“Good. And this’ll put an end to it.”
Winding up, John slugged him a couple more times. By the time he was finished, Noah Harper’s handsome face wasn’t so handsome any longer. In fact, under the blood and froth and bruises, his outer shell looked about as ugly as his inner self.
He was still lying there, collapsed atop the dust and the loose gravel and the dog droppings, when John dragged in a breath, settled the sleeves of his coat, and stalked away.
Time to meet with Cecelia Powell once again, and ante up the truth about this whole affair.
VIII
Dry season or not, the early evening skies had decided to send down a slight drizzle as John made his slow way up the hill toward Cecelia Powell’s home.
John Yancey was a quiet, contained man, quick to laugh and slow to anger. But, between the unusual loss of his temper and the gory mess he had made of his right hand, he was cussing himself out royally about now. What the hell had possessed him to fly off the handle like that?
Serve him right if Noah Harper, recovering consciousness and dignity, hightailed it to the sheriff’s office to swear out a warrant for assault. Couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it, even if the Good Book did proclaim that there was a time to kill. He’d come close to that with Noah Harper. The sleazy, swaybacked, hypocritical nincompoop.
Wearily, he climbed those couple of steps to the front porch—abandoned now, to the semi-darkness and inclement weather—and knocked at the door. Cozy, welcoming lamplight drifted out from inside, as did a soft hum of conversation and occasional laughter. The sort of homey atmosphere that called out to any lonely man. Lonely. Was he lonely, and just hadn’t realized it?
Another knock, more loudly and firmly this time.
“May I help you?” An older woman, well turned out with some shiny black uniform, was poised implacably at the doorway, blocking entrance.
“I’m hopin’ so, ma’am.” John had removed his hat to stand bare-headed in the rain, flimsy enough to be fog. “I’d like to see Miss Powell, if I could. Wouldja tell her it’s John Yancey.”
“Mr. Yancey, is it? Of course. Please come inside while I let her know.”
John closed the door behind him and waited. A murmur, a louder male voice, “Well, bring him on in, Mrs. Liang,” and the housekeeper reappeared with instructions to be so good as to follow.
He did. Right into a cheery, comfortable small drawing room full of chintz and pillows, where Gabriel Finnegan had hunkered down against one arm of the loveseat to thumb through a week-old newspaper. Some girl, as yet unmet, busied herself with some sort of needlework, and Cecelia sat in front of a small table, pouring hot tea.
Tonight, she was wearing a simple dress of honey-yellow trimmed in golden brown. Her streaky hair had been pulled back into casual ringlets that bared her face, and the darkening bruise around her cheekbone, to the world. Not much healing yet. Seeing it, John was reminded of his righteous anger earlier, in the alley, and immediately abandoned all thoughts of regret in regard to Noah Harper. The man deserved exactly what he’d gotten.
“Mr. Yancey,” acknowledged Gabe, rising. “Not a very pleasant night for you to be out and about.”
“No, sir, I would have to agree on that.”
“Mr. Yancey,” repeated Cecelia, looking up with a smile.
The friendly warmth of it shot straight across the room and caught John unaware, amidships, setting something astir behind his breastbone. “Uh,” he managed. “Yes, ma’am. Good evenin’ to you.”
“
Let me guess: this is Mr. Yancey. I’m Bridget Finnegan, Uncle Gabe’s niece.” The needle-working young woman approached him with a breezy grin. “May I take your hat?”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”
“Pray, take a seat, Mr. Yancey,” Cecelia offered. “Would you like some tea? And do have one of these scones. Mrs. Liang bakes them herself, from her own recipe, and they’re quite delicious.”
The easy patter allowed transition from outdoor gloom to indoor comfort. Choosing a corner chair, John gratefully accepted the hospitality as he would soon accept the tea and the biscuit.
“But you’ve been hurt!” Cecelia discovered with dismay, as he reached for a cup. “What have you done to your hand, Mr. Yancey? That looks awful. And painful.”
“Well, ma’am, that’s all part and parcel of why I’ve come here unannounced, to talk with you.”
Gabe folded up his newspaper, and put it aside. “Sounds a mite serious.”
John’s straightforward, steady gaze affirmed that it was altogether serious.
“You’ll talk about nothing until that wound is taken care of,” Cecelia lay down the law—but in a nice way. “Bridge, would you ask Mrs. Liang for some of her cure-alls? We’ll need to wash out the cuts, and—”
“Please, no fussin’.”
“—we’ll want some salve,” Cecelia continued on serenely, as if there had been no interruption, “and some bandages, and anything else she thinks we should have.”
Curious, Gabe had wandered over to glance down at the banged-up hand in question. “Those ain’t cuts,” he ascertained. “Someone just got his teeth knocked clean out of his head. You been in a fist fight somewhere, ain’tcha, son?”
John stalled by taking a sip of tea. Good Chinese tea, hot and reviving. “Well, if you’d just let me explain,” he said mildly, once he came up for air.
Taking the High Road Page 8
