Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

“What’s he done?” someone asked.

  “Don’t need to have done nothing,” his tablemate answered, “for the Fly Bull to be after him.”

  “Conspiring to start a riot,” Sterling said, peering through the gloom at the man who’d spoken last. Something familiar there. “Participating in a riot.”

  “Tsk tsk.” The bartender shook his head sadly. “Can’t have that, now can we?”

  Coming here was a mistake. No one would tell him anything. Even if they knew anything. “If Gerry Sullivan happens to come around,” he said, “tell him his daughter needs him.”

  The men shifted uncomfortably. They might be hostile to the law, but talk of daughters was another matter entirely.

  “Sure,” the bartender said.

  “You,” Sterling said to the man he’d recognized as having wanted to buy a rifle from Mr. Mann the other day. “Keeping yourself out of trouble, are you?”

  The man spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the floor. “Always.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Sterling headed for the door. Waste of time.

  “Hear there’s going to be some explosive excitement on Front Street tonight,” a man said in a loud voice. “Might be worth finding a spot on the river to watch.”

  Laughter followed Sterling into the street.

  A cigar store — a real cigar store — was situated across the street from the Yankee Doodle. Remembering that he was almost out of pipe tobacco, Sterling slipped inside before heading back to the office. He chatted with the woman behind the counter for a few minutes while she weighed his purchase and counted out change.

  “That place across the street,” he said. “See many men coming and going?”

  “A low-life bar. Like any other. I’m pretty sure they’re running prostitutes out of the back room.”

  He pulled the photograph of Jim Stewart from his tunic pocket. It had been shown all over town and was beginning to look rather the worse for wear. “Have you seen this man there?”

  He knew from Lou Redfern that Stewart had been to the Yankee. Never hurt to have it confirmed, though.

  She studied the picture, head cocked in thought. “I might have. I don’t pay much attention, mind. I run my business, I let them run theirs.”

  He took the small package of tobacco. “Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He stepped into the street, tucking the package into his tunic. Then he leapt back into the store.

  “Forget something?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “Shush.”

  A man Sterling definitely recognized was walking through the doors of the Yankee Doodle. He had not hesitated in the road, or stopped to read the sign. Just pushed the door open and entered, as if he’d been here many times before.

  Roland the Magnificent.

  * * *

  I didn’t know what grand announcement Irene planned to make, but I figured it would do me no good. I cornered Ray the moment he came through the doors that afternoon.

  He shrugged and said he had no idea what Irene was up to. “Tell ye the truth, Fee, I’m beginning to think you were right. She’s not the woman for me.”

  I refrained from shouting “Hallelujah!” and instead settled my face into thoughtful, concerned lines and said, “Why’s that?”

  His ugly face twisted. “I love her, Fee. I really do. But I don’t see nothing being returned. Oh, yes, she can be sweet and attentive. Make me feel like the centre of the universe she does. Then I see her here, laughing and being charming with men who’ve paid a dollar to get the same attention.”

  “That’s her job. It’s why she’s so popular. It’s all an act.”

  “Is it an act with me too, Fee? I sometimes think she’s hiding something, using me as a front, ye ken?”

  I patted his arm, and he went behind the bar, small and sad.

  Count Nicky was listening to Barney talk about the old days (which in Dawson means last year). The count stroked his chin. “Know your way around the territory, do you?” he asked.

  “None better.” Barney lifted his empty glass to his lips. He tilted his head far back and gave the glass a shake. Then he lowered it and ran his index finger around the inside.

  “Have you been up the river? All the way to the ocean? Near to Russia?”

  “Ocean’s downriver.” Barney sucked on his finger. “And I’ve been there, many times.”

  “I might be in need of a guide.” Count Nicky dropped his voice. Curious, I slid closer. “I might be bringing a substantial number of men and supplies down the river.”

  “Up the river you mean. Anyway, glad to be of help, my good man. Will you look at that? My glass is empty.”

  Count Nicky sipped his own whisky. “When does the river freeze up?”

  “Mid-September usually.”

  “Probably too late for this year, then. I am leaving for Washington shortly.”

  “Washington, eh? I have a sister what lives in Seattle. Least ways she used to live in Seattle. When did I hear from her last?” He crinkled his face in thought. “‘Seventy-seven, I think. Or was it seventy-eight? I remember better with a drink in my hand.”

  “Not Washington State,” Nicky said, “but the city on the east coast. I have business to conduct there. A letter of introduction to important people.”

  “Sure. When you get back look me up, will you? I’ll be here. Unless I’ve died of thirst in the meanwhile.”

  “Why would you do that? This is not the desert.”

  “He’s wanting you to buy him a drink, Count.” John Turner appeared out of nowhere. I hadn’t even realized he, like me, was eavesdropping.

  “Isn’t that a fine idea,” Barney exclaimed. He held up his glass. “Don’t mind if I do. Walker, I’ll have a drink on my friend here.”

  “Going to Washington are ye?” Ray asked, pouring the drink. As if suddenly aware that a good number of people were party to his private conversation, Nicky blanched. He grabbed his glass and took a hearty swig.

  “If you’re going,” Turner said, “Best be on your way. Wouldn’t want you to be delayed on your important business.” He looked at me and then at Ray. His eyes were cold and angry. “Seems to me more than a few folks would do worse than to be heading off back to where they belong.” He swallowed his drink. “The count’ll get it,” he told Ray. He walked out. Ray shrugged. I had no idea what all that was about.

  “Been a while since I did a spot of guiding,” Barney said. “I’m sure I haven’t lost the knack. How many fellows you planning to bring, Count?”

  But Count Nicholas Ivanovich Prozorovsky had clammed up.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for Miss Jennings and Angus to search the photography studio and the upstairs rooms. Nothing but the powder used for illumination appeared to be missing.

  Miss Jennings rested her right hip against the table. “If not for the broken door, I might not have even noticed someone’s been in here.”

  “But they had. And they don’t seem to mind that you noticed. I’ll go for the Mounties.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I have to tell them. You’ve been robbed.”

  “They didn’t take much.”

  “Perhaps we frightened them off. In that case there may have been two of them. One to watch out for you returning. We came back earlier than usual, and they had to run before taking anything more.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I left the flash powders there. Now that I think of it, I used the last of that portion yesterday.”

  “It was there. I saw it myself.”

  “I don’t want to bother the police with this.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve been robbed, Miss Jennings. It doesn’t matter that they didn’t take much.”

  “Leave it.” She threw her hat onto the table. “I insist.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is. Now, I need you to run and fetch someone to fix that door and put on a new lock. Then I think you’re ready to help me in th
e darkroom. You have to keep your mind fully on the task at hand, Angus. One slip, one sliver of light, even for less than a second, and the image will be ruined. Once gone, it cannot be brought back. A photograph is as much a picture of a time as of a place or a person.”

  28

  I made it my business to know what was going on at the other dance halls. The Savoy might be the most popular today, but popularity in this town swung as wildly as a rumour of a new gold discovery. I paid a bartender at the Monte Carlo and a musician at the Horseshoe to keep me informed of the news. No doubt several of my employees were making a little something on the side as well.

  I was leaving the dressmaker the afternoon after the near-riot, highly pleased with myself. The navy blue gown needed but a few tucks and adjustments to be finished and the yellow was coming along nicely. A man in his forties, who always dressed as if he were about to go grouse hunting on a Scottish estate, slid up to me. His Harris tweed jacket was immaculate, matching trousers tucked into high brown boots polished to a brilliant shine. He wore a cloth cap and carried a stout walking stick with a gold tip. “Heard you had some trouble last night, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  “Heard that also. The men liked that new girl you have. The young one. Pretty they say. She sang a new song.”

  “Yes.” I paid for information going in one direction only. I wasn’t about to tell him I’d sacked Colleen.

  “New act at the Monte Carlo tonight,” he said. “A couple of twins. Real lookers, too. Young.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup. I heard ’em rehearsing just now. Can’t sing worth a hill of beans, but that don’t matter much, does it, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

  “Apparently not.”

  He touched his cap and strolled away, stick swinging.

  Twins, eh? Men loved twins. These girls might be twins, or they might not. Might not even be sisters. All they had to do was say they were and the men would come to see them. I was not entirely displeased at the news. I did not want a repeat of last night’s fiasco, and I suspected the Savoy audience would not be happy when Colleen failed to put in an appearance. The more men who went to the Monte Carlo to see the twins, the better.

  As long as they eventually drifted back to the Savoy.

  * * *

  “Are you not feeling well, Angus?” Mrs. Mann asked.

  Angus was sitting at the supper table, pushing moose steak around on his plate. The meat was tough but flavourful, and the gravy thick and good. He didn’t have much of an appetite.

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” he said. “Not hungry.”

  “Not hungry! That’s a new one.”

  Angus’s mother wasn’t at dinner tonight. She’d gone to the dressmaker and was running late, so would eat in her office.

  “Mrs. Mann,” Angus said, drawing out the word, “if something’s happened to someone and you know it’s wrong, but that someone doesn’t want you to tell the authorities, should you?”

  “What?”

  “I mean if you know a crime’s been committed, but the victim doesn’t want to tell the police, is your duty to your friend or to the police?”

  “Police,” Mr. Mann growled around a mouthful of moose. “Always. Your duty.” He helped himself to another ladleful of mashed potatoes.

  “It depends.” Mrs. Mann leaned back in her chair and studied Angus’s face. “Did your friend …”

  “A theoretical friend.”

  “This theoretical friend. Did he or she commit a crime?”

  “No.”

  “They’re the victim of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the decision is up to them, Angus.” She cut a small piece of meat.

  “Thanks Mrs. Mann. That’s a help.”

  “Unless …” She studied her fork.

  “Unless?”

  “Unless the person who committed the crime is a danger to others. A man who’s attacking women, for example. Understandably the woman in question won’t want to go to the police, but suppose they could catch him? And thus prevent him attacking another woman?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You’ll do what’s right, Angus. I know you will.”

  Angus wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know what was right. Someone had broken into Miss Jennings’ studio. Did it matter that they hadn’t stolen anything of value, or damaged anything? It was still a crime, right? She’d told him not to worry about it. It was a minor matter, not worth bothering the police.

  He was finishing dinner when a knock sounded on the back door and Dave came in. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Mann. Hi, Angus. Want to go fishing?” Dave was carrying the pole his father had made for him.

  “Sure.”

  “Sit down,” Mrs. Mann said. “We haven’t finished our dinner. I have made a strudel for dessert. Apple. Would you like some?”

  “Would I?” Dave dropped his fishing pole and lunged for Fiona’s empty chair.

  There’s nothing like fishing for making a man think. When they lived in Toronto, Angus spent part of the school vacations at the cottages of his friends. When the boys’ fathers came up to join the family on the weekend, they’d often go fishing and sometimes catch enough to provide the fish course at dinner. The cook would drench it in a rich creamy sauce or serve the fish plain and unadorned and everyone would exclaim that it was the best fish they’d ever tasted. The boys would preen, proud at providing food for their families.

  Even if they didn’t catch anything worth eating, Angus remembered one father saying, “It’s not the fish. It’s the fishing.”

  He and Dave walked along the banks of the Yukon River past the tents and the roughly constructed shacks to where there could still be found a trace of peace on the river.

  They put worms onto hooks, dangled their legs over the edge, and tossed the ends of their lines into the water. Angus had a fishing pole one of his mother’s admirers had made for him in an attempt to get into Fiona’s good books. It wasn’t anything like the sturdy factory-constructed and store-bought poles they used on Stoney Lake, but he liked this one — string with a weight at the end and a worm for bait — better. It felt good and right in his hands. He let out a bit more line.

  “You been following that Mountie and the lady anymore?” Dave asked.

  “No. Didn’t seem any point to it.”

  A flock of geese flew high overhead, their honks of encouragement loud in the quiet evening.

  Reasonably quiet at any rate. The boys could still hear the commotion from town. People talking, men laughing, wagons rolling, hammers and saws.

  “I wonder,” Angus said, “how long it will be before all this is gone?”

  “All what?”

  “Geese. Fish. Quiet.”

  Dave shrugged, not much caring.

  They knew it was eight o’clock when the town erupted in noise. The dance halls sending their callers out into the street to attract custom. Angus thought of Roland. He’d promised to teach Angus a couple of easy tricks to impress his friends, but that hadn’t happened. Perhaps Roland also was just pretending to befriend Angus to get closer to Fiona.

  No matter.

  Although, Roland didn’t look at Fiona the way men who liked her in that way did — with a stupid simpering smile on their faces. When he thought no one was watching, Roland looked at Fiona almost as if he didn’t like her much.

  There’d been a lot of strange people in the Savoy lately. Sometimes it seemed as if Dawson was populated by nothing but strange people.

  Count Nicky, who wanted to get Alaska back in order to create a New Russia. Miss Jennings had written a nice formal letter introducing him to the American president. That President McKinley had not the slightest idea who Eleanor Jennings was, she said with a laugh, wouldn’t become apparent to the count until he was refused entry to the White House. If he even got as far as Washington. She had a feeling, she told Angus, Count Nicky was easily distracted.

  And how about John Turner, who was
always playing poker at the Savoy, and who’d also been following Miss Jennings?

  The boys fished. They didn’t have much luck. Dave caught a couple of small grayling, but Angus came up empty.

  What, Angus thought, would anyone want with a small amount of magnesium? If you needed light, kerosene was easily available, along with lamps in which to use it. Wood made a longer-lasting fire. The only real need for the magnesium powders Miss Jennings used was to create a sudden brilliant flash, so she could take her photographs indoors.

  A jerk on his line and the pole was almost pulled out of his hands. “Hey,” Dave shouted, “you’ve got a big one.”

  Angus threw the fishing pole to the ground. “I’ve gotta go. You take it.”

  He jumped to his feet and ran. The pole was pulled down into the cold waters of the Yukon River. Dave grabbed his own, scrambled to his feet, and took off after Angus.

  * * *

  Eleanor Jennings stood in the faint light coming from the room behind her. Between the buildings long shadows still lingered in the near-Arctic night. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Sterling said. “Something came up at the detachment.”

  “Gave me a chance to catch up,” she said. “I’ve spent the time writing a letter to my father.”

  Sterling thought she looked nice, in an evening gown of green taffeta with a salmon-coloured over-dress. The neckline was scooped, the bodice tightly fitted, the waist pouched, the sleeves short. A black collar dotted with pearls was cinched around her neck. She pulled on her gloves.

  “I walked past the Savoy on my way here,” he said, taking her arm after she’d locked the door behind them. “The crowd seems manageable tonight.”

  “I need not fear being trampled to death then?” Her laugh as light as chimes in a soft wind.

  “Not tonight.” Any place else it would be scandalous, escorting a lady to an evening at a dance hall. Even in Dawson, Sterling expected to get more than a few raised eyebrows. But Miss Jennings didn’t seem to be at all concerned with respectability. He’d offered to take her to dinner, and she’d asked if, instead, they could go to the Savoy. She was fascinated, she said, by the place. All those undercurrents of humanity. She was hoping to meet more of the customers and hand out her cards.