The Innocents (The Innocents Mystery Series Book 1)

by C. A. Asbrey

  “Mr. Robertson, I am a woman and I am Scottish. I am also very tired of this nonsense. No wonder you can’t bring in The Innocents. I’ve been sent here to help.”

  “We’re working on bringing them in. I have my best men on it.” Robertson shook his head. “We don’t need typewriters. We teach the men to type their own reports. It’s more secure.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She opened the wooden gate and swept over to the glass-fronted office Robertson had vacated. She took a seat across from his desk. “Now, what do you have on this gang so far?”

  Robertson’s color rose as he followed her in. “Mrs. MacKay—”

  “Miss,” she corrected, firmly, “Alan Pinkerton does not employ married women.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t care if you’re a vestal bloody virgin. You don’t work here.”

  “Mr. Robertson,” Abigail stared at him in admonishment, “I simply won’t tolerate less respect than you would afford your wife or daughter. Am I clear?”

  “My wife wouldn’t be seen dead near criminals. She’s the type who makes a man want to open doors for her, or offer her a seat. She’s a lady.”

  “I mastered both standing and door handles some time ago, so there’ll be no need for any special treatment. Simple politeness will be sufficient.” She rooted around in her bag and produced a batch of papers; papers which had been kept in a pouch around her waist beneath her skirts until now. “My identification and your orders from Alan Pinkerton.”

  His face simmered with suspicion. “Orders?”

  “Yes, I have been sent here to assume a role to help bring in this gang.”

  Robertson took a seat, his brow furrowing into folds of pink flesh as he read the missive. “You’re from the Woman’s Department? I thought that department was disbanded after the war.”

  Abigail shook her head. “It’s a small, but vital, department. I was lucky enough to have training from Kate Warne herself. Mr. Pinkerton holds the female detectives in high esteem. We have been able to infiltrate areas the men could never access, so he sent me to help you. It’s not a criticism. It’s simply wise to try something else when one tactic doesn’t work.”

  He slid the papers toward her with one stabbing forefinger. “I’ve never worked with women in my life. My men have enough to do without mollycoddling you.”

  Abigail smiled benignly and then pushed it back. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not my employer. Alan Pinkerton is, and he has stated I have to work in this area. Need I remind you that he is your boss, too?”

  The thick brows knotted into a frown. “He’s gone mad! Putting a woman in somewhere to get the tittle-tattle from the servants is one thing, but sending one to bring in a gang of outlaws? I won’t have it. You’ll be murdered, or even worse. We’ll end up with an even bigger mess to clear.”

  “Isn’t that the risk we all take?”

  “These are men are criminals. The politeness is just a front to get cooperation.”

  “I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. They’ll do twenty years hard labor when caught, which is basically a death sentence, so they’ll do what it takes to stay free. The gang were only given the sobriquet ‘The Innocents’ because they are polite to members of the public. I have no intention of rounding them up single-handed, though. I’m here to collect intelligence and bring you information. That’s it.”

  Robertson sat back in his chair. “This is my problem with it, see. Women have no judgment. They believe the tripe trotted out by the dime novels.” He punctuated the air with a thick finger. “There’s no such thing as ‘handsome, chivalrous criminals.’ They’re wrong ’uns, pure and simple. Jake Conroy is a cold-hearted gunman who’s there to back up Nat Quinn’s leadership. Conroy has killed; and d’you think a greasy snakesman like Quinn could keep a band of cutthroats in check without fear? He’s a hard man, feared by criminals who’ve crossed him. He controls his gang with a tight fist, and they all have violent pasts. They won't listen to anyone they aren’t scared of.”

  “Snakesman?” Abigail smiled. “They’re boys sent in through tiny spaces to open the doors for the gang to break in, aren’t they? I doubt Quinn has done that in twenty years. He’s over six feet tall. I agree that they’re criminals. I’ve done my homework on them. Nat is the brains of the outfit, a brilliant mind and quick learner, by all accounts—an expert with explosives, a safecracker, talented at picking locks, and a wonderful mind for strategy and logistics. He sometimes operates on his own, all over the country if the prize is worth it.

  “Jake is both fast and accurate with that gun of his, and he has killed. Witnesses all claimed it was in self-defense, but I’ll reserve judgment on that. They work together like a well-oiled machine. They have built that gentlemanly reputation as a tactic to avoid trouble from the public, but it’s only a front, and most definitely a strategy. There’s an unspoken deal between them and any witnesses; you leave us alone, and we won’t steal your money or personal possessions.”

  “You’ve read their file. It’s hardly ground-breaking information.”

  She nodded. “I have. It would be unprofessional not to.”

  “So? Just what do you think you can do?” Robertson demanded.

  “Just for the record, I don’t buy that ‘handsome gentleman robber’ rubbish for one minute, but I do believe I can help you to catch them. Nobody expects a woman to be investigating, and that gives us an immediate advantage.”

  “If and only if I agree to work with you,” Robertson smirked, “what’d be your plan?”

  Abigail ignored his contorted face. “I aim to get menial work in a place where nobody notices the help, especially when I make myself as unattractive as possible. Men don’t notice women like that. It makes you invisible, and it’s where I can overhear a great deal. There are rumors of them having connections to the town of Bannen as children. We can find no actual records of anyone with those names there, but it’s somewhere to start. I plan to work at the brothel—” Robertson’s face turned puce from the neck up so she finished her sentence to clarify, “as a maid. Not in any other capacity. There’s a brothel there which is very high end and they cater to their clients with excellent food and hospitality as well as the obvious. They employ maids, cleaners, kitchen workers, you name it. You have to keep the place looking good for the money they charge. The prices start at fifty dollars a trick.”

  “How much? That’s almost a month’s wages for most men!”

  “It’s as good a place as anywhere to start. There are plenty of local people working there, too. I can get a general overview of the town. The customers will either be wealthy or crooked.”

  “Or both.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “What do you need from me? I’m in no position to support such a hare-brained scheme.”

  “Nothing for the time being; other than making sure you know what I’m doing and ensuring I have access to the records, as and when I need them. I’ll contact you.”

  He nodded slowly. “I guess if Pinkerton says you’re to adopt a role, I don’t have much say in it, but I'll write to him to protest in the strongest possible terms as well as having a drive on The Innocents to bring them in. I’ll prove to him we don’t need women out here in Denver.” He stood. “In the meantime, if you want to spend the next few weeks doing futile, dirty work, it’s no concern of mine.”

  Abigail rose from her chair. “Thank you, Mr. Robertson. I expected only grudging acceptance. It’s what I have come to expect, but I will bring you results.”

  “I won’t have a woman on my team. You won’t make much of a detective if you don’t listen, Miss MacKay. ”

  “I couldn’t agree more, but you appear to be the one who’s not been listening. I won’t be under your command. I report to Alan Pinkerton via the woman’s department as he has found that’s the best way to deal with the objections of area commanders like yourself. He’s a man who demands results, and he’ll put in a woman if it’s the way to achieve them. He won’t brook opposition to his plans unless it’
s to give him a better option.” Abigail stood and thrust out a hand. Experience had taught her to maintain her professionalism in the face of prejudice. “Until we meet again?”

  He took it, shaking it reluctantly. “My men will have caught them while you’re still trying to figure out which hat goes with which dress.”

  Abigail smiled. “We can only hope so. We are on the same side, after all. At least I’ll know if you’ve arrested the right men. I‘ve seen them.”

  “How? There are no photographs of them and descriptions are so bland. There are no distinguishing marks or scars.”

  “By doing my job. I spent weeks travelling on trains carrying payrolls to meet them. I also have a sample of handwriting. Goodbye, Mr. Robertson. You’ll hear from me soon. I’ll let you know where I end up.”

  She strolled out of the building, into the cacophony of the Denver streets, ringing with the sounds of horses, wagons, vendors, and street musicians. Abigail never got used to the noise of the modern city. She was a country girl at heart and preferred wide open spaces. A cab pulled up in response to her raised arm. She climbed aboard and waited as her enormous trunk was loaded by the doorman and the driver. “The railway station please.”

  She settled into her seat and snapped open her reticule, pulling out a five dollar note. She turned it in her hands looking at the inscriptions and the red seal of authenticity. Scrawled across it in pencil were the words, “Take from the rich, give to the poor. N XXX’.

  It had been slipped in her bag at Hillside Bend during the robbery. How idiotic of Nat Quinn to give her a sample of his writing. Anything could be used as evidence, and more than one criminal’s real identity had been revealed through handwriting; but somehow, it was still very amusing and endearing. He was certainly not your average criminal. What a crying shame he was so dishonest.

  She’d had no interest in any man since her Alastair died; not until she crashed into a man so full of devilment and life. She thought part of her had died until his feral challenge sparked her back to life. The fates were obviously playing a sick joke at her expense, but she couldn’t help but be intrigued. She sat back and allowed herself to ponder on the brown eyes and the handsome man with the man in the moon watch fob. Thoughts were harmless after all. Weren’t they?

  Chapter Two

  Nat’s dark eyes fixed on the woman leaving the railway station and he grabbed his partner’s arm, dragging him back into the deepening evening shadows of the sidewalk.

  Jake’s guard went up, scanning the street for danger. “What?”

  “It’s her. The woman from the train again.”

  “What woman?”

  “The Scottish one at Hillside Bend. The one who wouldn’t put her hands up.” His face dimpled into a smile. “The one who sways when she walks and riles when she talks. The one with the potato.”

  “Remind me to make sure you don't compose any love letters for me.” His uncle frowned, staring across the road. “Yeah, it’s her. What’s she doin’ here? We’ve gotta be well nigh a hundred and fifty miles away from Hillside Bend.”

  “I suppose she has to be somewhere.” The brown eyes slid sideways and gleamed with venal delight. “She was on her own on the train. I wonder who she’s here to see.”

  “It ain’t you, Nat. Leave it be.”

  “She’s different. Spunky and kinda fiery.”

  “So is a stump broke horse. Stay away.”

  Nat scowled. “I’m not a fool, Jake.”

  The older man arched his brows. “Neither am I. I know you too well when you see a challenge. We’d best move on and sleep somewhere else tonight. We can’t afford to be recognized.”

  “There’s no need for that. We’ll be at the saloon. We only need to make sure we keep to places ladies don’t go and there’s a whole street here where no self-respecting woman would be seen dead.” His eyes narrowed. “I need to find out where she’s staying so we can avoid it.”

  “Nat, no. We start avoidin’ right now.” A muscle firmed in Jake’s jaw. “I mean it. We head for Blair Street and we stay there. Women avoid it unless they’re workin’ girls. If you want female company there’s enough there to keep you busy all night.”

  “I guess,” he shrugged. “They’re just not very challenging.”

  A smile tugged at Jake’s lips. “You want a challenge? There are women there who’ll beat the hell out of you for the right price. I’ll even pay for extra whips.”

  ♦◊♦

  Nat strolled through the respectable side of town keeping to the shadows cast by the covered sidewalk. His dark eyes scanned the hotel on the corner. It was the best in town, and the most likely place a decent woman would stay in this frontier town.

  Standing at three stories tall with a brick frontage and a porch decorated with wrought iron work, it was more salubrious than Nat’s current accommodation, but way more boring.

  It was getting late and two hardy guests gathered on the porch to enjoy the night air before bed, but it was too cold for most people to sit outside for too long. Nat lingered, the brim of his hat pulled low, content in the knowledge she wouldn’t recognize him even if she saw him from a window. He no longer wore a business suit and looked like any other cowboy in his brown corduroy trousers and dark shirt, covered in a long duster.

  The last person on the hotel porch stood and stubbed out his cigar before he turned and strode inside.

  Nat sighed. Why had he come here? Why did he feel drawn to this place on the off-chance of a glance of a woman he would never speak to? What was he going to do even if he saw her? Jake was right; standing here was stupid and pointless. Respectable women wanted to be courted, meet family, and to take their time to work toward a wedding. A decent woman was off-limits.

  The metallic click of a gun being cocked behind his head made his blood run cold. A firm hand grabbed his shoulder as a hoarse voice whispered in his ear. “Git your hands up and come with me.”

  Nat’s hands rose along with his hackles. “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m robbin’ you, you idiot. Why d’ya think?”

  Nat heaved a sigh of relief. Robbery was way better than the law. “You’re kidding. You’re robbing me? This is a joke.”

  “What’s with the questions? I’m robbin’ you, now git into that alley where we can work in private.”

  “We? What’s with the idea we’re a team? You can’t rob me.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind why. Just go away.”

  “No, gimme your cash. All of it.”

  Nat’s Irish rose to the fore. “Sod off.”

  “You ain’t listenin’, mister. Git over to the alley and hand over your valuables.”

  “Why?”

  “What d’ya mean, ‘why’? I want your money.”

  “Oh, I understand, but why do I have to go in an alley? You can take it right here.”

  The robber’s irritation seeped into the tense voice. “Fine. Give me your money here.”

  “No. Go away.”

  Nat felt the hardness of a revolver in the small of his back. ”You realize that if you shoot me now, people will pour out of every building the minute you pull the trigger. You won’t get ten feet before you’re cut down.”

  The robber paused. “Get in the alley.”

  “Now you’re repeating yourself. You haven’t thought this through. How do you know I’ve even got any money?”

  “Because you’re hangin’ around the best hotel in town.” Nat turned his head but the robber whacked his shoulder. “Stay still.”

  “You’re hanging around the best hotel in town, too. Give me your money.”

  “I ain’t got no money. That’s why I’m stealin’.”

  “Well, neither have I. None I’m handing over to you, anyway. Maybe we should split what you’ve got?”

  “What kind of a robbery is this? You’re the most annoyin’ victim I ever met. I’ve got a good mind to shoot you for the hell of it.”

  “A good mind doesn’t do stupid things lik
e hold up men in the street without a plan.” Nat could detect the growing uncertainty in the man’s thin voice. “Am I annoying enough to die for? That’s what’ll happen.”

  “I want your money. Hand it over or I’ll—”

  A dull clang cut the man off mid-sentence, followed by a thump as he tumbled to the floor. Nat swirled around, his eyes lighting with delight at the sight of the woman he was here to see not only wielding a spade, but raising it once more to slice at the robber’s right hand as it reached for the gun which had tumbled from his grasp. Nat drew his own weapon and pointed straight at the man’s head. “You’ve lost your gun, friend. Get out of here before you lose a hand, too.”

  The skinny figure shimmied over the boards of the sidewalk before clambering upright and scampering off as fast as his feet could carry him. Nat grabbed the discarded weapon and thrust it into his waistband, tilting his head to keep his face in the shadow of the brim of his hat. “Thank you, Miss…? Sorry, who do I thank?”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t you want to go to the sheriff?”

  “I don’t think so,” Nat holstered his own gun. “They might want to know why you were taking your shovel for a walk in the dark. It’s all a bit funereal isn’t it?”

  Her laugh tinkled through the chilled night air. “Funereal? Now, there’s a word I didn’t expect to hear in a cowtown,” she put the blade on the boardwalk and leaned on the handle. “The spade was over there. And I saw you were in trouble and stepped in. It’s none too clean.” He found the way her nose crinkled adorable. “I think someone has been clearing horse droppings with it.”

  He grinned. “So you thought you’d clean up the town? Hang around and they might give you a star to wear.”