The Innocents (The Innocents Mystery Series Book 1)

by C. A. Asbrey

  She stopped outside number twelve, her dark eyes darting from side to side as she tinkered with the lock. It clicked. One more look around and the handle turned in her hand. She was in. Abigail had already watched the gangly man leave the hotel from her room, and the side windows of the corner room were useful to watch him progress up the main street. She had no idea where Daintree was going, but she suspected the saloon was involved, due to the smell of his breath yesterday evening.

  She closed and locked the door behind her and donned her apron as a disguise. There were two bags in the room; a cheap, cardboard suitcase with leather-corners and a carpet bag. She moved in on the carpet bag first. It was unlocked and made easy pickings. Her brow creased as she flicked open a box full of calling cards; the names and occupations varied; from journeyman tailor to lawyer. There were numerous names and identities, and unlike her own false papers, were not hidden in any hidden lining or compartment. She replaced the box and rifled through numerous papers finding a telegram from D.B to R.D. dated ten days before the murders. It offered a meeting in Bannen. She frowned and thrust it into her pocket. There was nothing more of any interest in the carpet bag, so she turned her attentions to the suitcase.

  It was also unlocked, and a quick run around the lining told her there were no hidden compartments or false bottoms. The bag appeared too cheap for that, anyway. It contained a few shirts, paper collars, nightshirts, and underwear. All things she could have expected, but the cardboard accordion file at the bottom caught her attention. She untied the string and drew in a breath at the contents. There were letters about a family inheritance and the name Benson was mentioned. There were far too many of them to read here and now.

  Time for a split-second decision. She pulled up her skirts and slid the folder into the large pouch in her petticoats. The clothes were replaced and the suitcase snapped closed. She unlocked the door and a quick check in the hall showed it was all clear. She stripped off her apron and jammed it under her arm, the lock pick tinkering in the keyhole to secure the door behind her.

  Abigail heaved a sigh of relief and made for the staircase, her heart leaping into her mouth at the sight of Daintree’s gangly form rounding the corner to climb back to his floor. He paused, smiling in surprise at the young woman descending the stairs toward him. His lips stretched into a gap-toothed grin and a hand slid up to remove his hat.

  “Good afternoon, miss. You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  For no reason at all, other than sheer devilment, her accent went to the Deep South. “Why, yes. I am, sir.” She smiled through coquettish lashes as she crossed him on her way down. “Shall I see you at dinner?”

  “Maybe you will. The name’s Daintree.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Daintree. Until tonight.” She slipped out of sight and quickened her pace, onto the landing below, thanking her lucky stars she had thought to leave her own door unlocked. She stepped inside and turned the key, still leaning against the firm, cool wood in relief. Her heart thumped so loud she was sure it must be audible in the hallway.

  There was a thrill to be got from burglary, but try as she might, she could feel nothing but on edge when breaking and entering. She grudgingly admired Nat Quinn’s insouciance in such circumstances, but she’d never reach that level of nonchalance. She pressed her ear to the door and listened hard. All was quiet, but she suspected that would not last for long, not when Daintree discovered his file missing.

  She kicked the wedge back under the door and sat in front of the mirror. Time to get back into makeup in case anyone raised the alarm; there had to be no sign of the young dark-haired woman in the building if anyone came to her door, and that could happen any time.

  ♦◊♦

  Gas bottles, bearing the legend ‘S.S. White Dental Manufacturing Company of Philadelphia’ hissed through the rubber tubes, one jammed into the keyhole, the rest under the door.

  “Is this necessary?” muttered Jake.

  Nat turned wide eyes on his uncle. “Those dogs sounded enormous judging by the thumps as they threw themselves at the door earlier. There’s a reason why they’ve never been broken into. They leave the dogs running about the shop at night and the minute they hear anyone cutting glass or picking a lock, they’ll go crazy. There are no gaps in the door to throw in drugged meat. What choice do I have?”

  “So there’s just four bottles of that stuff. Is there enough to fill the whole place?”

  “We don’t want to fill the whole place. We’d be knocked out when we went in.” Nat pointed to the bottles at his feet. “That shop is about twenty feet square and about eight foot high. I note things like that. I reckon the dogs’ noses will only be about three feet from the floor at most. For the gas to hit the dogs’ noses, I need to account for a total volume of air of one hundred and sixty-four thousand five hundred and sixty-nine pints of air to fill one-third of that with gas in the lower part of the room. It’s heavier than air, so the room will fill from the bottom up—one-third is fifty-four thousand eight hundred and fifty-six. According to the books, that’s the dosage: a ratio of one part nitrous oxide to two parts air to knock you out. So one-third of the bottom part of the room is only eighteen thousand two hundred and eighty-five,” Nat paused. “Roughly estimated.”

  “Huh? So we ain’t knockin’ out the family?” Jake asked. “The ones with the guns? ’Cause that’d be kinda handy.”

  “We’re knocking out the ones who’ll wake the men with guns,” Nat whispered. “There’s ninety-six pints of gas here and it’s heavier than air, so it’ll fall to the floor level. That means we have two hundred and eighty-eight pints of air to gas to be an effective dose. That’ll knock out the dogs.” He paused. “I hope.”

  “Quit saying it’ll knock out the dogs! You threw all those numbers at me deliberately because you knew we had nowhere near enough.” Jake’s eyes narrowed. “I worked to put you through school because they said you were real smart, but even I can work out we’ve got nowhere near enough. Maybe you should have been Pearl’s boot boy and I should’ve gone to school.”

  “It’s all I could steal,” Nat shrugged. “I took ether and chloroform, too. And chloral hydrate. It could come in handy one day.”

  “You’re gonna chloroform a dog? A great big, bitin’, slaverin’ beast? Its nose is right next to the teeth. Are you loco?”

  “Probably,” the shadows caught Nat’s dimples. “I’m hoping it won’t make them too dopey to eat the drugged steak I brought, though.”

  Jake dropped his head into his hands. “We’re mincemeat.”

  “No, we’re not. If they don’t get knocked sideways by the gas, we don’t break in.”

  The gunman shook his head. “Nat, check the pipes. I think the gas is goin’ to your head.”

  ♦◊♦

  The lock pick tinkered at the back door of the pawnbrokers. Jake frowned at the sound of whimpering and snuffling coming from inside. Nat turned a glittering glance back to his uncle who rolled his eyes. Sure, the watchdogs were quieter, but they were still awake. One of the hounds could launch itself at their throats as soon as they opened the door. Jake delivered a warning look and pulled out his gun.

  Nat arched his brows and pulled out a packet of greaseproof paper. “I think the gas has made them dopey.”

  “Dopey enough to join the gang and let you lead them?” Jake asked.

  “I'm hoping the combination of gas and the smell of steak’ll make them forget to be territorial.”

  “I hope it wasn’t expensive steak?” hissed Jake.

  “It’s drugged. Liver and tripe, too. I got a bit of everything. What do they like best?”

  Jake scowled. “They lick their own butts. Anything’ll do.”

  “Here goes. Let’s hope the gas made them groggy enough not to bark.” Nat opened the door a crack and tossed the meat inside, snapping it closed again. The sound of snuffling and slobbering caused his cheeks to dimple.

  “Now, we wait.”

  Chapter Fifteen


  Nat and Jake picked their way back across the scrubby open land, heading due south towards Bannen under a caustic sun and a biting wind. The two horsemen set off at dawn to put as much space between them and any pursuit as possible after breaking into the pawnbroker’s store. They felt comfortable enough to walk the horses for a spell.

  “He kept real good records, that Goldman,” mused Jake. “He’s gonna miss his book.”

  “Yup. It won’t stop people from claiming their goods, though,” Nat chuckled. “They’ll have all the information on their ticket. It’s gonna cost him.”

  “He’ll know we did it. Green’ll talk, and he guessed who we are.”

  “Then he’ll know better’n to cross The Innocents next time he meets us,” Nat retorted.

  “If he meets us,” Jake snickered. “We’re not dumb enough to mix with criminals in our down time. That’s how you get turned in.”

  “It seems a boy’s been selling horses and jewelry, and anything he could get his hands on for years in Paris. Even clothes, if they’re good quality. He sold the horses late on the twenty-fifth, the same date the women were killed, the same date John Smith sold valuable jewelry. He was the only one selling stuff in three days, so it had to be him. Everyone else was buying or pawning. I found the name John Smith every couple of months. Green told us he was heading over to Goldman’s after him, and Goldman’s records bear that out. ”

  “It’ll be interestin’ to see if John Smith’s sales coincide with all the other bushwackin’s,” Jake’s mouth firmed into a hard line. “Hittin’ poor folks and takin’ everythin’ they’ve got is the lowest of the low. At least we only steal from banks and railroads, not strugglin’ families.”

  “He sold a lot of jewelry according to the book. Where would Dora and Bessie get anything like that?”

  “They wouldn’t, unless they came into money. The girls at Pearl’s wear cheap jewelry made of paste and glass.” Jake sighed. “Dora talked about that. It’s all fallin’ into place. It could be the reason they got targeted.”

  “The blond boy, could it be Kurt Schmidt?”

  “Pearl says they’ve lived outside of town for years. It sounds like Kurt with the scarred lip but he sure ain’t smart and he hardly speaks any English. I think he struggles with his own folks’ language, let alone anythin’ else. Everyone who knows him says he couldn’t even pretend to be smart for ten minutes.”

  “And he was American. Scars on lips are pretty common. Some are born with a hare lip and others are injuries. I guess we’ve got to take a leaf out of Abi’s book and keep an open mind.” Nat kicked his mount into action. “C’mon. Let’s see if she’s got anything better than this ledger.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Abigail’s name. Nat was getting too involved. The sooner they got to the end of this thing, the better. Perhaps this was enough evidence for her to act on. He nudged his horse forward and followed his nephew into the rocky vastness stretching out before them.

  ♦◊♦

  Nat and Jake were earlier than she thought they would be. Abigail met them striding across from the stables toward the hotel, dusty and tired. Nat’s smile shone with affection and caught her in a hug. Jake scowled at the warmth in what was supposed to be a contrived relationship.

  Nat’s eyes gleamed. “Did you miss me, Mom?”

  She glanced over at Jake’s stony countenance. “I missed both of you. I’m glad you’re both back safe and sound.” She shook off Nat and embraced Jake in welcome. “Did you get anything?”

  “A pawnbroker’s ledger. It shows the same boy with the twisted lip who sold Dora and Bessie’s horses sold jewelry that day. It itemizes it, too.”

  Abigail’s frown was concealed beneath the old lady prosthetics. “The book describes the person selling it as the boy with the twisted lip?”

  “No, but the stableman said he was heading there next after selling the horses and we have the records of what he sold. Nobody else sold within three days,” Nat replied. “The John Smith selling the stuff had to be him.”

  “It’s a start,” she nodded, "and the level of proof required by courts is higher, but this is great. This gives us information on where to apply pressure to get witnesses.”

  Nat looked crestfallen. “People don’t talk in places like Paris. You’re lucky to get anything.”

  “Honestly, this is good. I’ve got something similar. Come on, and I’ll show you.” She caught Nat by the hand and pulled him to the hotel.

  “I need to wash,” Jake hung back with a sullen frown. “We’ve had a long ride. Are you goin’ to the bath house, Nat?” He paused, commenting pointedly at Abigail. “We’ll see you later, Mrs. Cadwallader.”

  “Oh, right,” she nodded. “You’ll want a rest, too. I’ll get sandwiches sent to your room. You relax. We’ve got plenty of time.” She turned away eyeing Jake’s reaction with caution. “I’ll see you later.”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake worked his way through a pile of sandwiches, his stocking feet propped on the edge of the bed while Nat examined the telegram and the documents in the file.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Nat mused. “A person called D.B. sent a telegram to R.D. offering a meeting in Bannen on the fifteenth. Dora Benson was murdered on the twenty-fifth. On top of that, Daintree has a whole pile of correspondence about an inheritance in the Benson family.” He frowned, pulling out a letter covered in spidery writing. “This one suggests Phil Benson didn’t die in the mine accident and is due to inherit from his father.” His brow lined with a frown. “Why would they think that? Dora would never have had to work in a brothel if her husband was still alive.”

  “Could he have deserted her?” Abigail asked. “It happens all the time.”

  All eyes turned to Jake who thought hard. “Nope. Not the way she talked about him. She was destroyed when he died. Anyway, what about the people who saw him go into the mine? There were other people caught up in the blast, too. They saw him.”

  “What about a false name?” she mused. “What if the man she thought she was married to was using a false identity? What if he was killed in the mine accident using her husband’s name and he’s still alive somewhere?”

  Jake chewed, mulling it over. “Why would he do that?”

  “Why do any of us do it?” she replied. “He could have just picked a name at random to change his identity. He may have used the name already on the marriage license to support a new identity after Dora was deserted.”

  “Nope.” Nat shuffled through more papers. “Everyone knows Dora was a servant in the Benson home in Boston, and she and Phil ran away to get married. I don’t think there’s any doubt about who either of them were.”

  Abigail scratched her head under the wig. “Could she have picked up with anyone else in between? A substitute husband?”

  “You never knew her,” growled Jake. “She was one of the most decent people I ever met. She loved her family, and that’s why she sold herself—to give her son a roof over his head and an education. If anyone was lyin’, it weren’t her. Got that?”

  She nodded. “But whoever sent that telegram was so sure.”

  “Abi, did you notice the telegram about Phil still being alive was from R.D. TO R.D.” Nat held up the paper. It says it was sent from WUTRAVBURO BH, then there are numbers,” Nat glanced over at her, a questioning frown on his face. “It was sent to R. Daintree at an address in Scollay Square, Boston.”

  “That’s Western Union Travel Bureau. The code is in Boston, but I can’t remember which one. We can find out. Scollay Square is in a pretty seedy part of town near the waterfront. It’s been flooded with poor Irish and Italian immigrants for years now.” She bit into her lip. “I never noticed that on the paperwork. Boston to Boston? So people in Boston have been questioning whether Phil Benson is alive and hiding in Bannen? That’s very interesting.”

  “So who died in the mine?” snarled Jake.

  Abigail nodded. “It was an explosion, so a look at the face wouldn’t
help, not judging by the blind pianist. He was caught in it, too. He was blinded and disfigured.”

  “Dora was honest. She loved her husband and everyone who worked at the mine saw him go in and a body come out. Why would he fake his death, watch his family struggle, and still not claim any inheritance? It makes no sense.” Jake lifted another sandwich. “Whoever thinks Phil Benson’s still alive is an idiot. He’s dead.”

  “I will have to contact the Boston office to look into this for me,” Abigail stood. “While I was dressed like this I got the sheriff to look into the telegrams Dora sent.” Jake’s foot dropped off the bed at the mention of the word ‘sheriff’. “He should have them by now. I’ll go and see him while you two rest.”

  “Now, wait a minute. You went to the sheriff?” demanded Nat.

  “Of course I did. I needed the weight of a badge to get the telegrams. They don’t just hand them over to anyone. I had to steal these. I went there before you even saw me in this disguise and you’re still free as a bird.” She tilted her head and smiled at the tense men. “Don’t you think he’d have been over by now if I’d turned you in? Go and sleep. Goodness, you two wouldn’t recognize honesty if it smacked you in the face.”

  “The people we mix with are as crooked as a barrelful of fish hooks, and plenty of them would smack you in the face as soon as look at you. You ain’t exactly honest yourself, Abi,” retorted Jake. “We had to scare the truth outta you.”

  “I’m doing it professionally.”

  “So are we,” Nat snorted. “This isn’t a game.”

  She huffed in derision. “Well, you have a choice to make don’t you? You can have a rest or you can get your cowardly arses over to the stables and hightail it out of here. I’m going to the sheriff’s office. I have work to do.”