by Sharon Rowse
Granville lounged with one shoulder against the open door of Frances Scott’s dressing room. The air was heavy with the scent of tea rose toilet water. Frances, eyebrow pencil in hand, glanced up from the looking glass she’d been peering into and frowned. Her gaze went from Granville to Trent. “Why are you here?”
“I need information.”
“Yes, and I told you to ask Sam for it.”
“This is not information that Sam would have.”
“What sort of information do you need?”
“The sort that tells me what you were doing the night Jackson was killed.”
“The night Jackson was killed? I was here, of course.”
“And is your show always at the same time?”
“Same times,” she corrected him. “And of course it is. I’m the headliner. I do two shows a night.”
“And about what time would you have been onstage?”
“I go on at ten and then again at midnight.”
“How long are your shows?”
“Just under half an hour. It’s all timed to the music, you know.”
“And how long does it take you to get ready?”
There was a flush of color high on her cheekbones now; she’d seen where his questions were leading. “Another half an hour.” She met his gaze, her eyes level and clear. “What time did Jackson die?”
Granville shook his head. “I’ll have to confirm that. Can anyone say when you arrived and when you left that night?”
Trent was looking worried, his eyes darting back and forth between them.
She pursed her lips softly. “I don’t know. Some of the girls, probably. I’ll ask them and let you know.”
I prefer to ask them myself, Granville thought. “That would be helpful,” he said.
Frances gave him a sharp look, as if she’d read his thoughts, but she said nothing further.
“Say goodnight, Trent,” Granville said. “Miss Frances needs to finish getting ready.”
“Goodnight,” Trent echoed. Watching her touch a powder puff to her nose, he blushed. Then he practically tripped over himself trying to get out the door before his face got any redder.
Frances laughed softly. “Come again.” Granville couldn’t read the look she threw him.
As they made their way back through the rowdy crowd toward the front door, Granville steered Trent toward the bar. “I have a few more questions for the bartender,” he shouted in Trent’s ear.
Their quarry was a large fellow, with a nose that looked like it had been broken repeatedly. He seemed to be in constant motion, his movements unexpectedly graceful as he poured a shot of whiskey here and sent a pint of beer shooting down the bar there. Granville watched him for a few minutes, then turned away.
“We’ll come back when he has time to answer questions,” he said to Trent, then realized the boy was no longer there. “Trent?” Spotting him standing closer to the stage, he reached out and grabbed him by the elbow.
“Miss Frances is about to come on. We have to stay.”
“Another time,” Granville said, dragging his reluctant charge along behind him. “We’ve got work to do.”
Number 21 Dupont Street was a run-down building in one of the city’s worst neighborhoods. The walls were warped and flaking from the rain. The windows were cracked, the door stuck, and the entrance smelled of wet wool and boiled beef. No one was there to greet them. Trent wrinkled his nose and looked over at Granville.
There was a burst of raucous laughter from the end of the hall. Motioning to Trent, Granville followed the sound, which led him to a large, over-furnished, overheated parlor. The room reeked of bad whiskey. Several men clustered around two blondes wearing skimpily cut scarlet gowns. A thin brunette wearing a purple dress cut so low her breasts looked in danger of spilling out was clutching the arm of a dapper little man and laughing shrilly.
A buxom redhead wearing bright yellow satin caught sight of them. “Hello, handsome,” she said, strolling up to Granville. “What can we do for you?”
The smell of whiskey rising from her was so strong Granville nearly choked. “I’d like to speak to whomever is in charge here,” he said.
The redhead laughed, then looked up at Granville through heavily darkened eyelashes. “But he’s not available anymore,” she said, stumbling slightly on the words. “You’ll have to talk to me.” She gave him a broad smile, showing a gaping hole where an incisor should have been.
Granville felt Trent move closer to his side. “That would have been Clive Jackson?” he asked.
The smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “So why’s it your business?”
“He owed me money.”
She laughed, short and hard. “Jackson owed everyone money. He was so tight, he’d rather starve than buy a meal.”
“So where is he?”
“You hadn’t heard? He’s dead. Someone shot the son of a bitch, and it couldn’t have happened to anyone who deserved it more.”
“Who did it?”
She paused, but only for an instant. “Dunno. I hear they’ve got someone in custody, but with the cops we’ve got in this town, who knows if it’s the right guy. If it is, he deserves a medal.”
“Not a high opinion of the late Mr. Jackson?”
She grimaced.
A hint of the girl she’d once been showed in her eyes for a moment, and Granville felt a sudden pang of compassion for all that she’d lost. “Why didn’t you run?”
She gave him a weary look. “’Cause he had the connections, didn’t he? He’d just haul us back again.”
“What connections?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know, do I? One time our Gracie tried to run off, the cops brung her back.”
“The police brought her back?”
She grinned at him. “Don’t know much about this town, do you? As long as the fines’re paid, and a bit extra, they leave us alone.” She winked. “Mostly.”
“So Jackson bought off the police?”
“A few.”
“Do you know which ones?”
Her expression changed. “No. No names,” she said flatly.
Granville wondered if Craddock was one of the men Jackson had bought off. He thought about asking, decided against it. Considering her for a moment, he asked “Did you hate Jackson enough to kill him?”
“Oh, yeah. I never did, though. Wish I had.” She swayed slightly on her feet, then looked thoughtful. “Don’t know if the others did, though. Hey, Darla. Colette.”
The two blondes looked up.
“Either of you girls shoot our Clive?”
“Nah, didn’t think of it, Flo,” said the taller of the two. “Would have been a good idea.”
“Me, neither,” said the other with a giggle. “What about you, Gracie?”
The brunette, her bright-red lips now pressed tightly together, shook her head. She said nothing, but there was a lost look in her eyes.
Somehow this wasn’t how Granville had envisioned the questioning going. “Know anyone else who might have wanted Jackson dead?”
“Oh, yeah. Hundreds of ’em,” quipped the redhead. “They were standing in line.”
“Who?”
“Now why would I be telling you?”
She seemed drunk, but her instinct for self-preservation worked just fine, Granville thought. “Jackson’s dead now. What difference can it make?”
A chuckle shook her. “So he is. Guess he can’t do anything about it, neither. Right, then, let’s see. Aside from the four of us, plus any other girl who ever worked for him, there’s about a hundred guys he fleeced at cards, and Old Gipson, and some of his boys. Some say Benton had it in for him, too. His fancy piece, that dancer, she sure didn’t like him any, though.”
“Benton’s fancy piece?”
“Yeah, you know, with the fan. What’s her name? Hey Gracie, what’s Benton’s girl call herself?”
“She calls herself Franny from Frisco,” Gracie said.
/> “That’s right. Knew it was some hifalutin name. And her no better than any of us.”
Granville felt a momentary regret. So that was the connection between Frances and Benton—she belonged to him. No wonder he was protective of her. Behind him, he could sense Trent bristling. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to keep him from doing anything rash. “Why didn’t she like Jackson?”
“Don’t know as I ever heard.”
“I know for a fact he tried to queer her with Benton,” offered Gracie, who’d joined the conversation, the sad look still haunting her face.
“Yeah?” Flo said.
“Uh huh.”
“No wonder she had it in for poor ole Clive.”
“Didn’t work, though.”
“Jackson tried to come between Frances and Benton?” Granville asked. “Why would he do that?”
Flo shook her head at him. “Jackson liked power. Maybe Frances was getting too close to Benton.” Her tone was condescending.
“I gather Jackson failed?”
“Sure did.”
“How did Benton feel about Jackson’s interference?”
Flo offered another pitying look. “Doubt he ever knew. Jackson was good. He’d have pitched it as concern for Mr. B.’s safety, or some such.”
“And Frances’s reaction?”
“Way I heard it, she swore she’d get even. Someday.” Gracie gave him a sly glance. “I’d not want to get on the wrong side of that one.”
Granville couldn’t help wondering about Scott’s sister, and the secrets she and her brother seemed to share. “What about Gipson? You said he and his boys didn’t like Jackson, either.”
“The usual disputes,” said Gracie.
“Usual?”
“Sure,” she replied. Seen close-up, Gracie was both too thin and too pale for health. “Benton owns half the town, and Jackson ran the smuggling and the whorehouses for him. Gipson wanted in on the action.”
“I thought Gipson was supposed to be a banker,” Granville said, just to see how they’d react.
The two women burst out laughing, swaying against one another. “That’s a good one, that is!” gasped Flo when she could speak again. “He’s into the banking so’s he can clean up all that cash he’s got coming in from smuggling and girls. Course, he’s not above fleecing an idiot or two wants to invest in a mine somewhere.”
Granville didn’t doubt for a moment that Gipson was a crook, but could he trust what they were saying? They were giving him more information while breathing fumes at him and propping each other up than he’d gotten since Scott was jailed. “How do you know all this?”
Flo and Gracie looked at him, then at each other. It was Gracie who answered. Flo was still laughing too hard to speak. “Haven’t you ever heard of pillow talk? We hear everything that happens on this side of town, and more than you’d guess about the other side.”
“Everything?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
“So who killed Jackson?”
Gracie gave him a sharp look. “I think we’ve done enough of your work for you,” she said.
T W E L V E
Standing in the street outside Number 21, Trent glared at Granville in the dim light cast by the lone streetlamp. “They were rude about Miss Frances. Why’d you let them run on like that?”
“When people are answering questions, you don’t stop them to disagree.”
“But they were lying.”
“About what?”
“About—everything!”
“Which facts did they have wrong? Exactly. Tell me,” Granville said.
Trent said nothing, his features set in stubborn lines.
Granville nodded. “That’s what I thought. If you’re going to be of any use to me, you have to make sure you’re working with facts, not suppositions or how you think things should be.”
Trent’s face changed. He looked up eagerly. “Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Going to be of any use to you?”
Granville grinned. He’d walked right into that one. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “It depends on . . .”
As he spoke, two dark figures reared up behind them. Before Granville or Trent could react, one of them grabbed the boy. The other went for Granville, and would have had him, too, except for the patch of sheer ice in his way. The attacker’s feet shot out from under him and his head met Granville’s fist, then rebounded off the ice with a dull clunk. He wouldn’t be moving for a while, Granville thought, shaking out his throbbing arm, noting that the stitches seemed to have held.
Trent let out a muffled groan. Granville turned to help him just in time to see Trent’s elbow shoot out and catch the other man in the stomach. The second ruffian grunted, but didn’t release Trent. Grabbing a broken barrel stave from a pile of rubbish by the steps, Granville swung at him. He missed, but he caused the man to drop Trent and jump back.
Granville went after him, the stave cutting through the frosty air with a whoosh. The fellow ducked, then swung back with fists like clubs. He caught Granville a glancing blow on the chin. As Granville backed away, ears ringing, Trent stuck out a foot, tripping his assailant, who went down like a heart-shot grizzly. Recovering, Granville hit him on the head with the stave. Trent sat on him, then looked at Granville. “So what do we do now?”
Granville examined the men at their feet. “First we find out who these two are, and who sent them. But you might want to stand back. He’s down, but he’s not likely to stay that way.”
“Oh.” Trent stood up and backed away. Granville moved to stand in front of his young companion, clutching his makeshift weapon.
“Keep an eye on that one. Let me know if he moves,” he said to Trent, who was next to the first attacker and regarding him warily.
“Why don’t we just get out of here?”
“This is the third time I’ve been set upon in three days. I want to know why.”
The man he was guarding stirred and groaned. Granville raised his weapon. “Who sent you?”
Hearing no reply, Granville nudged the fellow’s ribs with his boot. “Who sent you?”
Still nothing.
Granville raised the barrel stave higher. “Talk, or you’ll regret it.”
The fallen man’s face set in stubborn lines, but his eyes tracked Granville’s every move.
“Granville, I think I know this one.” Trent was bent over the fallen man, trying to make out his features in the uncertain light.
“From where?”
“At the warehouse, with your friend Blayney. He was one of the men guarding me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I remember the scar on his neck.”
Granville leaned a little closer to the second man. He didn’t recognize him. He turned back to the first. “If you worked for Blayney, you might as well say so. There’s nothing he can do for you now.”
There was no response.
“Unless it’s Gipson you work for,” Granville continued. “I understand he has his own ways of punishing disloyalty.” He didn’t actually know any such thing, but he knew enough about Gipson that it seemed a safe assumption.
The resentful eyes flickered.
“So it is Gipson. Now, why do you suppose he’s so interested in me?” Granville said in a thoughtful voice. The second man once again didn’t answer. Granville hadn’t really him to. He nudged the man again with his toe. “It is in your interest to answer me.”
“Why?” It was a growl.
“Because I can hurt you as much as Gipson can, and I’m here. He isn’t.”
“This one’s stirring,” Trent said.
“Better talk fast,” Granville told his charge.
“He never tells us why.” It was a sullen mutter, but the words were clear.
“What did he tell you?”
“Said he wanted you roughed up. Run out of town.”
Why had Gipson ordered this attach, Granville wondered as he brought the barrel stave do
wn on the second man’s head, sending him back into unconsciousness. Was it because he’d sworn to find Jackson’s killer? And now Blayney was dead, too. So was Gipson behind the murders of Jackson and Blayney? Or were these attacks on him more personal? What kind of threat could he pose to the man?
He knew Gipson was a rotten snake, but so did half of Dawson City. Based on what Flo had said, it wasn’t exactly privileged knowledge in Vancouver, either. And anything he knew about Gipson, Scott also knew. But then Scott was already safely locked up and facing death, while he was being run out of town.
“Come on, Trent,” he said, grabbing the boy’s elbow. “We’ve got what we needed.”
“Where are we going?” Trent asked as he hurried to keep up.
“I need to have a little chat with my partner.”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve been beaten up three times in three days,” Trent muttered as he hurried to keep up.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
When the one-armed jailer opened the cell door for them, Scott was lying on the bunk, staring up at the rough bricks that made up the ceiling. Granville was shocked to see how haggard he looked.
“Doesn’t look like they’re feeding you too well, partner.”
Scott turned to face him, and for a moment Granville saw the misery in his eyes. Then it was quickly hidden behind a broad grin. “Naw, I just don’t want to put on fat, all this loafing around I’m doing,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk.
He looked over Granville’s shoulder. “And who’s this?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
“Should I? Hand me that lamp. I can’t even see you in this light. Not that that’s a bad thing.” He peered at Trent. “Nope, can’t say he looks familiar . . . wait a minute. Didn’t you attack us the other night?”
“Correct,” Granville said.
