Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  It didn’t hurt, occasionally, to remind the employees exactly who was boss here.

  Angus had walked me to the Savoy again this evening. Two nights in a row. An unprecedented occurrence. Something was on his mind, and I wondered if it had anything to do with the killing we had witnessed.

  I’d heard nothing about that incident for a few days, and had largely forgotten about it with all the other things going on. My mind wandered to that unfortunate man, and how his last words had been my name. And Culloden. Richard had told me the fellow’s name — Jim Stewart. Common enough.

  I watched Roland the Magnificent do his act. Toward the end, he always hauled someone out of the audience to poke fun at. The men at the front leaned forward, in anticipation of that moment. No one seemed to mind being made to look a fool, not if they were at centre stage.

  We had more than a full house tonight. Men were lined up against the walls and crammed onto the benches with scarcely enough room for a flea to squeeze between. I stood at the back, watching, my elbows stuck out at right angles clearing me some space. Every now and again someone (usually a newcomer) tried to “accidently” press up against me. A jab in the ribs or stomp on the foot tended to correct this enthusiasm.

  Above, the boxes were full. Men lined the stairs, shoving against each other in a struggle for the best viewpoint. Murray came through carrying two bottles of Champagne. He bellowed at men to get out of his way.

  An unprecedented three Mounties were in the building. One in the saloon, two more watching the show. They should have been watching the audience, but one’s attention did tend to wander.

  Roland sent the hapless cheechako back to his seat. The fellow was flushed red with embarrassment and grinning from ear to ear. I thought it would be an excellent idea if I could arrange to have his photograph taken as Roland was removing coloured scarves from his ear. I was sure his friends, if not he himself, would cherish a memento of the occasion. Unfortunately it would not be possible to squeeze Miss Jennings, her camera, and all of her secondary equipment into the room. Never mind the possibility of her flash power exploding in the crowded room.

  Just as well. No telling how much damage impromptu photography could do to one’s reputation and legacy.

  “We’re not letting any more men in,” Richard Sterling said into my ear. “What have you done this time?”

  I smiled at him. “Simply running the very best dance hall in town.”

  He grinned. “Don’t tell me all these people are here to see him.” He gestured toward the front, where Roland was taking extravagant bows. The men began booing at him to get off the stage. The boos turned into a roar as musicians struck up “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” and the girls pranced out.

  Richard and I were quiet for a few moments. No point in trying to talk over the din.

  I noticed Irene climbing the stairs. A peacock in her scarlet-trimmed gown amongst the men, almost uniformly dressed in dull brown or dirty black. When not on stage, the women were expected to be available for those well-heeled customers who might like company in their box. Along with said company, the men were expected to purchase a bottle of Champagne with which to entertain their favourite. Irene never went into the boxes during the show. She was paid enough that she could enjoy the luxury of taking a rest when she wasn’t performing. Tonight she joined a miner (who looked to be only slightly younger than Methuselah) at his table. Smiling broadly, he hailed the passing Murray, after ensuring everyone noticed his companion. I’d seen Irene paying him attention before. I didn’t have time to wonder if that meant anything.

  I nodded toward the door. Richard understood and went first. It was only slightly less noisy in the gambling room. We went through into the bar. I made my way to the tiny alcove beneath the stairs where the crowd was fractionally less dense.

  “I suspect,” I said, when I thought I could be heard, “they’re here for Colleen.”

  “What?” He put his hand behind his right ear.

  “Colleen,” I bellowed in the manner of a fishmonger in Covent Garden. “They’re here for Colleen’s new song.”

  He nodded.

  This was impossible. I pointed upstairs. His eyebrows lifted.

  The noise faded to a dull roar as we ascended the stairs. “A man can’t hear himself think,” Richard said. “I figured you might need a hand, so I’ve posted extra men in the Savoy. I can’t allow any more in, Fiona. Someone’s likely to get crushed in the throng.”

  “I’m surprised myself.” I led the way to my office and unlocked the door. The lamps were unlit and the remains of the northern daylight cast long shadows. “I assume they’re here to see Colleen sing her song, but I don’t know how everyone knew about that.”

  Richard gave me his old smile, the one that lifted my heart.

  I wondered if he smiled that smile at Miss Eleanor Jennings.

  I myself stopped smiling.

  “Her father’s been showing that picture all around town. Telling everyone they’ll see something tonight that will, in his words, blow their socks off.”

  “He is?”

  “Do you know what this something is?”

  “No. I told her to perform a melancholy ballad. Her voice is good but nothing special.”

  “I suspect her voice is not what they’re here to see. I have to warn you, Fiona. Anything improper and I’ll have to shut the show down.”

  I didn’t bother to argue. The smile had gone and his face had turned serious. I knew the law as well as anyone. We, like all the saloon and dance-hall operators, skirted it occasionally, and the Mounties turned a blind eye. But they’d never stand for outright flaunting.

  “I’ll have a word with her,” I said in my meekest voice.

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m surprised at her father though. I got the impression he didn’t like her being on the stage.”

  “He’s a practical man, perhaps. He doesn’t have to like it, but if it’s going to happen he’ll make the best of it.”

  “I did notice he’s found a good seat.” Gerry Sullivan had arrived early and plopped himself front and centre.

  Silence fell between us. Richard looked at the window. I studied the crack running in a jagged streak down the wall. Surely it was longer than it had been yesterday.

  “Fiona.”

  “Yes, Richard?”

  “Fiona, I …” He stepped toward me

  “There you are! Murray said you’d gone upstairs. Hi, Corporal Sterling. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “No, Angus, you’re not. What’s up?” Richard retreated.

  “Did you know Joe Hamilton’s guarding the door? Not letting anyone in. Why’s it so crowded?”

  “A new singer tonight. There seems to be some … expectation around her,” I said.

  “I heard a couple of guys talking about it this afternoon, when Miss Jennings and I were photographing the waterfront. They said it’s gonna be a dance that was banned in the East.”

  I groaned. If Colleen danced this banned dance, the police would shut us down. If she didn’t, the men would riot. If the police tried to stop her, they’d riot at that.

  “Perhaps we need more men,” Richard said. “Angus get to the fort. Tell McKnight I’m expecting trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.” Angus loved to be of assistance to the police. Then he eyed me. “Perhaps you should remain here, Mother.”

  “Remain where?”

  “Here. In your office.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “In case of trouble.”

  “I’ll look out for your mother,” Richard said. “Hurry now.”

  Angus ran out the door.

  “Let’s go and have a word with this singer of yours.”

  As we hurried down the stairs, I glanced at my watch. Nine forty-five. Joe Hamilton was standing behind the door to the street, hands on hips, feet planted. Faces were pushed up against the windows, trying to peer inside. Ray had taken himself off bar du
ty to pace back and forth across the room. He slapped his billy club into his hand as he walked.

  The bar wasn’t as busy as it had been earlier. Only a few hardcore drinkers remained. The gamblers, however, were busy at it: not much could interrupt their game. Roland had joined Count Nicky and John Turner at the poker table. Jake was dealing tonight, but his mind didn’t seem on it. He kept glancing over his shoulder to the dance hall. I fancied the walls themselves were bulging under the strain.

  I remembered why I’d tried to speak privately to Richard. I wanted to have a word with him about Turner. Too late now.

  We entered the dance hall. Ruby was alone on stage singing a cheerful ditty.

  We stuck to the walls, our progress impeded by the press of men. Richard went first, pushing and shoving to clear a path for me. At the sight of the uniformed Mountie, heading backstage, they began to murmur. And not in a friendly way.

  We reached the entrance to the backstage area, guarded by one of Ray’s men. I glanced at Richard. “You can’t come in.” Heaven knows what state of undress the ladies might be in. They would be getting ready for the performance of Macbeth scheduled to follow Colleen.

  “I’ll wait here.”

  An air of expectation hung over the dressing room. None of the usual chatter as the women changed costume. They’d done Macbeth a hundred times before, most of them never gave it a second thought. Tonight all eyes were on Colleen.

  Irene wasn’t here, I noticed. Probably still upstairs sulking and quaffing Champagne.

  Colleen stood alone at the back of the room. She was breathing deeply and rhythmically, sweeping her arms in a pattern, down at her sides, then up to touch her chest and down again. Her eyes were closed, her face calm. She wore a blue dressing gown. Threads hung from the hem and elbows, one sleeve was ripped. It had been patched in several places.

  Wide-eyed girls stepped aside. I walked up the middle of the room until I stood in front of Colleen. “Is that what you plan to wear on stage?”

  She opened her eyes. They darted around the room and did not look into my face. “No.”

  “Take it off.”

  Her fingers shook as she untied the belt and dropped the dressing gown. The girls gasped.

  Colleen wore black stockings and a short black lacy skirt. So short it barely covered her knees, so lacy I could see the outline of her upper legs. Her pink blouse — if you could call it that — covered little more than her plump breasts. The neckline was deeply scooped, a row of tassels sewn to the bottom of the blouse. Her bellybutton was exposed as well as the top of her hips. Arms and shoulders were bare.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I screeched as my composure broke.

  She lifted her chin and looked directly at me. A trace of defiance flared momentarily. Then it died, and she dropped her eyes.

  “Ellie,” I called.

  “Mrs. Mac?” Ellie, as the oldest of the girls, was the only one permitted to use the short form of my name.

  “In the absence of Irene,” curse her wounded pride, “you’ll have to do the next song.”

  “Me?”

  “No, not you, the other Ellie. Of course you.”

  “What shall I sing?”

  “I don’t damned well care. Get the hell on that stage and sing your heart out. Make it a cappella if you have to. Maxie and Betsy, you’ll dance behind her. Make something up, but make it good.”

  “What’s a cappella?” Maxie asked.

  “Get out there the second Ruby comes off. I want no breaks in the performance. We’ll go to the witches’ scene immediately after. And where the hell is Irene!”

  “Here.”

  I whirled around. Irene stood in the doorway. Her hands were crossed demurely in front of her, her head was high, and the edges of her mouth turned up. “The audience has noticed an unusual number of Mounties in the hall. Inspector McKnight’s chewing his pipe just about in half and not looking at all pleased. As I don’t have a song at this here time,” she sniffed, “I was enjoying a glass of Champagne in the boxes. But then I figured you might be in need of assistance. I had to pass Corporal Sterling himself to get into the dressing room.” Her eyes glittered with self-satisfaction and malice. When Irene attempted to put on airs, she tried to imitate an upper-class accent. My accent. It made my hair curl.

  “Do your regular song,” I said through gritted teeth.

  The other girls might not have been in the room. Irene and I stared at each other through a tunnel of silk and cotton, feathers and baubles.

  “What’s it worth?”

  “Your job.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  My mind raced. If I offered Irene an increase in salary now, when everyone could see I was desperate, I’d be exposing a vulnerability. If I refused, she might walk away.

  “I believe Ruby is about to finish. I want someone on stage in one minute. Irene, do it. Or leave. Ellie, be ready to move.”

  Irene’s face hardened. If she hadn’t been on the far side of the room, she might well have struck out at me. Instead she let out the breath she was holding. “Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said.

  I didn’t let my relief show. Irene was practical and sensible. She wouldn’t walk out on this job, not without the guarantee of another. She was possibly the best-paid dancer in all of Dawson. A position she would protect at all costs.

  I’d gambled and won. For now.

  I turned back to Colleen. “Your costume is highly inappropriate. Are you aware of that, Colleen?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. My dad wanted me to have fun with it, that’s all. He said it would be popular.” She looked about ready to cry.

  Popular all right. I didn’t bother to address the fact that her father (her father!) suggested she appear in public in that attire. Did the man not know it would likely get her a night in jail? “What song did you intend to perform, may I ask?”

  “The Hootchy-Kootchy.”

  The girls gasped. “Spare us,” someone cried.

  “Are you insane!” The Hootchy-Kootchy was considered so degenerate it would surely have Colleen arrested, daring costume or no. Along with me for allowing it to be performed, the orchestra for playing the music, Ray for being the proprietor of the establishment where such an offence occurred. Possibly the other dancers simply for being in the company.

  That explained the costume. I’d heard rumours that various females from Egypt or Algeria were performing their native dances in New York and Chicago, causing some not-inconsiderable degree of scandal.

  Colleen began to cry. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “Does that mean I can’t sing?”

  I wondered if she was simple. I turned to face the watching women. “Finish getting ready. We’ll continue with the programme as normal.” Onstage, Irene’s voice lifted as she began to sing. I wondered how long I had before the men would notice that the woman they’d come to hear was not performing. Fortunately we had not put the time of her song on the sign. They might not even realize she hadn’t appeared until the show was over and the dancing had begun.

  Or not.

  Back to Colleen. She’d pulled the tattered dressing gown over her shoulders. “The orchestra was okay with you doing this dance?”

  She shrugged. “They didn’t say anything.”

  The dance itself needn’t have been provocative. Not if she simply moved around the stage to the music. It was the costume, and whatever she intended (heaven help us!) to do with it.

  “I thought I told you I wanted something melancholy.” My fault, I was beginning to realize, for not speaking to the orchestra leader and not attending the rehearsal.

  “My father said this would be better.”

  “Your father approved of this?”

  “It was his idea.”

  That set me back on my heels.

  “The men are here because they would like to hear you sing. Do you know any suitable songs?”

  She thought. “I can sing ‘Wild Irish Rose.’”

  �
�That should do. You will go on at the conclusion of the last scene in Macbeth. You will sing that one song, dressed in your street clothes.” I refrained from telling her she would never sing in the Savoy again. Regardless of whether the girl was simple or simply an obedient daughter to a greedy or degenerate father, I didn’t need trouble. No matter how appealing she was in the photograph.

  “I’ll tell the musicians to be ready with ‘Wild Irish Rose.’ If they don’t know it, you’ll have to sing without accompaniment. You will sing your song, take your bows, and leave the stage. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once more I passed through the line of watching women. Disaster averted, my heart struggled mightily to settle back into its regular rhythm as I left the dressing room.

  Richard lifted his eyebrows in question. I nodded to indicate all was well. Some of the tension drained from his handsome face.

  The musicians, fortunately, told me they knew the music to Colleen’s new song. They didn’t question the change in plans, which made me suspect they’d been hoping she would do something scandalous.

  Richard and I headed for the back as the men applauded Irene. She took a long time indeed over her bows. When the enthusiastic applause was dying down, rather than leaving the stage, she strolled lazily to the front of it, hips swaying. She stood there a moment, waiting, as the music ground to a halt.

  I stopped walking. “Oh, no.”

  She ran her eyes over the room, sweeping the audience, pausing now and again to fix on someone and centre him out. Almost every man sat straighter. Murray paused on his way up the stairs, Champagne bottles in hand. The waiter coming down, bearing the empties, stopped with one leg hanging in the air. Irene lifted her head and surveyed the boxes. The miner she’d been entertaining was almost hanging over the railing to get a better look. No one moved. No one breathed.

  Inspector McKnight tugged at his shirt front. Ray was beside him, not looking happy. It couldn’t be easy knowing your loved one was desired by a good number of men.