Innocent Bystander

by C. A. Asbrey

  “I wasn’t creeping, I was taking a shortcut. Who hums ‘The Wildwood Flower’ when they’re sneaking about?” Tibby raised his hat politely. “Sir, I may lack funds for accommodation, but I feed myself and stay on the right side of the law. I give you my solemn word of honor that I have never laid a finger on your property. In fact, I’ll go even further. You have my word as a gentleman that I never will.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m warnin’ you. The city’s swarmin’ with vagrants. Don’t let me see your face around my place again. I don’t like your kind sneakin’ around my property. It’s a good thing I was whitewashin’ my wall or I wouldn’t have caught you; you thievin’ piece of sh—”

  “I assure you, I am innocent.”

  “I oughta make sure you’re in no fit state to steal.” The man glowered at Tibby. “You can’t steal with your arms broken.”

  “And I couldn’t do an honest day’s work, either.” Tibby adopted a theatrical pugilistic attitude. “Don’t make me defend myself against you, sir. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  A great guffaw of laughter greeted Tibby’s pronouncement. “You? Hurt me? I’d be more scared of my chickens. What’re you gonna do? Bite my shins?”

  “I am a knight of the road, not a ruffian. I don’t fight.” Tibby crinkled his nose. “You are a mere pleb. I build castles in the air. You are no more than an ultracrepidarian.”

  A pair of hostile gray eyes looked Tibby up and down. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is it some kinda insect?”

  “If the caps fits. I don’t need all this attitude from you. I have more than enough of my own.” Tibby’s jaw set stubbornly. “Just let me be. I’m only walking down the street.”

  “Not for much longer.” The storekeeper’s jaw set. “Maybe I need to show you tramps this alley ain’t good for your health? My brother’s in the police department. Him and his pals tell tales of beatin’ up tramps all the time to clear the city from you vermin. One time, they even got away with beatin’ up a man sittin’ on his own front stoop because he looked scruffy, so they ain’t gonna worry about me givin’ you a good smackin’. ”

  Jake cleared his throat. “Is there a problem here? I didn’t see him steal anythin’.”

  “Everyone in San Francisco knows there’s a problem with hobos. The place is full of bums panhandlin’ and stealin’ anythin’ they can lay their greasy hands on.”

  Icy blue eyes stared at the storekeeper. “He was in the same restaurant as me no more than ten minutes ago. Whoever is stealin’ your eggs, it ain’t him. He was too busy takin’ mine.”

  The householder stared at the gunman, but lacked the conviction to maintain the eye contact and thrust his brush into the bucket. He leaned a ‘Wet Paint’ sign on the wall. “Just keep this tramp away from my property.” The man clattered through the gate and disappeared through his back door.

  Tibby frowned, his shoulders slumping. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was gonna follow you, but it looked like you were walkin’ straight into trouble again.” Jake’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re goin’ in the wrong direction for the railway station.” He thrust a jagged thumb over his shoulder. “It’s that way.”

  Tibby paused, his round blue eyes filling with resignation. “I suppose you’ve caught me, huh?”

  “Where are you really headed?”

  “My hotel. The Occidental. I didn’t want to go back there last night in case they were following me and found out my real identity. At worst, they’d have seen me take refuge with you and walked into a place full of Pinkertons. Let’s face it, if they turned up to strong arm you it would turn out better than me on my own. You can look after yourselves. It was an innocent strategy.”

  “So are you tryin’ to avoid givin’ us the photograph?” Jake shook his head in admonishment. “You lied to us, Tibby, and we were helpin’ you. That ain’t decent. It ain’t right.”

  “What’s worse is that I didn’t get away with it. I really was going to meet you at noon. I just didn’t want you to know I had a hotel in case they followed us back there.” The little man shrugged. “I suppose you want to come back with me to make sure?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Tibby. You play tricks just for the sake of them.”

  “Speaking of which, just give me a minute.”

  Jake watched the little journalist fumble with his fly, consternation spreading over his face at the realization at what Tibby was about to do. “What the hell are you doing? This is a public place.” Jake’s head turned to check out the alley. “You’ll get us arrested.”

  “He unjustly accused me of theft. Life’s too short to hold a grudge. Just get revenge and be done with it; that’s my motto,” Tibby replied, pulling his underwear out of the way. “Did you know that in England, lime wash is colored with all kinds of different additives? Those little, pink thatched cottages are painted with lime wash tinted with pig’s blood. Uric acid permanently colors it too. It gives it a lovely ochre tone, but it works best when it’s still wet, so there’s no time to waste. The lime wash isn’t dry yet.”

  Jake flushed, darting a look to the main street where two matrons were chatting. He moved over to block the urinating tramp from their view. “Tibby, stop that right now. You’ll get us locked up.”

  “It’s a chemical reaction with the lime.” Tibby continued his stream, both figuratively and literally. “It’s a very ancient way of coloring things.”

  Jake couldn’t have been less interested in the chemistry lesson. “Will you put that thing away, man?”

  Tibby did his best to look angelic, but landed more in imp territory. “Why? The sign says, ‘Wet Paint’.”

  “It’s a warnin’. Not an instruction,” barked Jake, watching a patch change color before his eyes. “You swore you’d never lay a finger on his property. Isn’t your word worth anything?”

  Tibby adjusted his dressing and gave a nod of satisfaction. “And I didn’t. Not one part of my body touched anything of his.” He tapped the side of his head with stubby fingers. “Brains, you see. I live on my wits and they are my best defense against whatever life throws at me.” He paused, gesturing with his head. “I thought you said you wanted to come with me?”

  “Are you always like this? I understand why you got dragged into that alley, now. It was probably nothin’ to do with Smitty.” Jake stood staring at the stained wall, shaking his head.

  They strolled further up the alley to join the next street over, pausing only to share a conversation in a glance at the angry bellow drifting in the air behind them.

  “What the— Who did this to my wall? I just painted that!”

  ♦◊♦

  Abigail turned away from the window at the ratting of the key in the lock and smiled at Nat as he entered. She placed the binoculars on the table. “Jake isn’t with you?”

  “He’s following Tibby to make sure we get the photograph. The little runt tried to give us the slip. Can you believe that?”

  Her face lit with amusement. “Yes. He’s a journalist. They’d sell their own mothers to get a story. You can’t trust them. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Nope, but it doesn’t matter. I never trust anyone in any case.” Nat wandered into the room and placed a paper bag in front of her. “I brought you a bacon sandwich. You aren’t eating enough.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care. Eat. You’re no use to your sister if you start getting dizzy and faint. You’re no use to us like that, either. I’ve seen you, going all pale and having to sit down. You’re not looking after yourself.”

  A slim eyebrow arched. “You’re right.” She reached out and took the bag mottled in translucent grease spots, the brown paper crisp beneath her fingers. The appetizing rich aroma of bacon drifted up to her nose and her stomach gave a loud borborygmal growl of hunger.

  Her eyes darted to his in embarrassment, but Nat just chuckled. “Listen to your body. You need to eat. I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Your co
ffee isn’t going to help anyone’s appetite. In any case, there’s already some fresh in the pot.”

  She picked up the sandwich and took a bite, the soft blandness of the bread contrasting beautifully with the crisp salty umami of the meat. It was superb. Part of her had forgotten how famished she really was.

  Nat put down a cup of coffee beside her and sat sipping his own beverage. “So? No sign?”

  Abigail swallowed. “It’s still too early yet. I saw Bartholemew go out around nine. I have no idea where he’s gone, but I’m more interested in watching for Maddie coming home.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. You’re a Pinkerton. Can’t you get her arrested?”

  Her dark eyes widened. “Arrested? Now there’s a thought.”

  “It’s the same principle as the stunt we pulled with Jake, but someone else is keeping her away instead of us.”

  “What charges did you have in mind?”

  Nat’s dark eyes lit with devilment but he shook his head. “Nu-uh. You don’t draw me into that swamp of sisterly-love. You decide what folks might buy when they look at her.”

  “Well, it can’t be anything indecent. Lawmen have a habit of thinking they can use women like that.” Her eyes rose to the ceiling as she pondered a charge. “She needs to be respectable enough to scare them off, but crooked enough to be arrested. How about embezzling the church funds?”

  “Embezzlement?” His cheeks dimpled in mischief. “I like it. So how would you normally go about getting her arrested if she was a real criminal?”

  “We’d have a warrant sworn out and we’d telegraph anywhere we thought she was likely to be seen.” A frown flickered over her brow. “Where’s that map? They have police stations here, but they’re terribly corrupt. They’re notorious for it. Which one would she reach first if she’s coming in on a wagon train from Boulder Creek?”

  Abigail dusted off the last of the crumbs and dropped to the floor where she smoothed out the map. Her long finger sought out Boulder Creek before stabbing the paper. “Here. So where might she seek help from the law? If I know her, she’ll wait until she gets back to town. She won’t want to get stuck in a backwater. She’ll wait until she’s back in San Francisco so they’ll take her home. The Mission District is the first police station she’ll hit.”

  “So what are we waiting for? Let’s get down there and leave a false warrant.”

  “Or, we could contact Nobby Clarke.”

  Nat’s brows met. “Who?”

  “Alfred Clarke. The Chief of Police. They call him Nobby,” Abigail replied.

  “Huh? Is he ugly? Why do they call him Nobby?”

  “It’s a standard British Army nickname for anyone called Clarke. He’s Northern Irish. The have lots of predetermined nicknames—Dusty Miller, Bunny Warren, Tug Wilson, Spud Baker, Nobby Clark. They’re traditional if you’re in the lower ranks. Commissioned officers never get called any such thing.”

  Nat leaned back in the chair with a frown. “Why?”

  “I suppose we can work out things like Bunny Warren and Dusty Miller, but others seem lost in time. Men called Clarke are just always called Nobby. They say it might be an occupational thing. Clerks were working class, but dressed in suits for work. They dressed like the nobs. That comes from the British Raj in India where they called the rich the Nabobs. It got shortened to nobs.”

  “The first man who called me that’d get a smack in the mouth,” Nat muttered. “So why do we need this Nobby?”

  “He’s rather unconventional. I may be able to persuade him to lock Maddie up for her own protection.” She paced back and forth wringing her hands. “No. I can’t. The force has a terrible reputation for corruption. I can’t trust them. Even the local newspapers ridicule their dishonesty and corruption.”

  Nat drained his cup and set it on the side table. “Then it’s too risky. If he refuses we’ve nothing to fall back on. He might even want to get involved in this and let Bartholemew get away. No. Get your disguises out and I’ll get down to the police station. I’ll tell them I’m a Pinkerton and that she escaped one of our men who apprehended her in the area. I’ll ask them to hold onto her until we can arrange to transport her.” He stood. “What paperwork do I need?”

  “I’ll get it.” Abigail clambered to her feet, reaching out to take Nat’s assisting hand. Her eyes softened, her fingers tightening around his as she felt a pang deep of want in her chest at the electricity in his touch. “Thank you,” she breathed

  “Anytime.” His eyes twinkled. “You’re not that heavy.”

  “I meant for helping me with this,” her voice thickened with emotion. “You were so angry back there in Ghost Canyon. I didn’t know what you were going to do.”

  “Do?” The smile fell from his face. “What would I ever do to you?” He stroked her cheek. “Yes. I was damned angry at you. I thought you were married and playing me along.” His head tilted to examine her. “Now that I know the real story… well, it changes things. For both of us.”

  “Both of us?”

  His brown eyes softened. “I knew you were hiding your private life, and I thought it was because there no place in it for me.”

  “I never lied about what it’ll take to be part of my life.” She tilted her head to look into his eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you everything without some sign you were willing to give up crime for me. I had to keep something back. I had to protect myself.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, well. Maddie kinda ruined that for you. Didn’t she?”

  She glanced down at the hand she still held, her breath quickening. “When the time is right I will thank you properly for this. You’ve been wonderful. I genuinely don’t know how I’d have managed without you.” Questions danced in her dark eyes. “And you’ve been so well-behaved. All this time and you haven’t so much as flirted with me. Is there something about me having been married which puts you off?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head, holding her gaze. “But I like the idea that me going off you bothers you.”

  “Bothers me?” Abigail sighed. “Life has taught me that people may love me, but the question is, for how long? Everyone leaves in their own way and for their own reasons. Everything has a season, but loneliness? That’s perennial.”

  He stretched out and wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her to him. “You’re upset about your sister. I know how desperate you must have been to trick your way into Ghost Canyon. This isn’t the time to start pressuring you into anything. You’ve got enough to deal with. Once this is over, though?” A lick of wickedness flickered over his face. “You’ve got a debt to pay. I intend to collect.”

  “Wait? Who knew you were so chivalrous, Mr. Quinn?”

  “Not me, that’s for damned sure.” He pressed into a kiss, stroking her with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Her breath seemed to still as her belly spasmed with hunger. Nat pulled back and gazed into her as though reading her soul. A deep reluctant sigh underscored his frustration as he stepped back. “As much as I don’t want to stop, this isn’t the time. What beards have you got? I need to get to that police station before she does.”

  ♦◊♦

  The Occidental Hotel was a grand confection of Italianate architecture which stretched around the corners of a block and intimidated surrounding building with a mixture of imposing grandeur and vertiginous height. Even the next grandest building around, the Masonic Lodge, was dwarfed in comparison. The interior was robbed of airy splendor by an extravagantly gaudy carpet which stretched as far as the eye could see. It extended up the grand carved staircase and beyond, to the restaurants, bars, and private supper rooms. Liveried staff scuttled around, providing the kind of interpersonal service the new world was becoming famous for in its confident new identity— deferential and attentive, but not in the least servile. The stiff crustiness of the English butler was not the Occidental’s style. The staff were actually friendly.

  A few heads turned at the little ragged man striding confidently up to the
desk, but he remained unchallenged. Apparently, people here either knew him or bought in to the self-assured gait and determined stare of a man who was only small in stature. Jake, on the other hand, felt decidedly uncomfortable, and silently wished he had been wearing his suit instead of canvas pants and a duster.

  An impeccably-groomed desk-clerk nodded in welcome to Tibby and Jake as they approached the polished reception desk.

  “Tiberius F. Dunbar. I’m in 126,” Tibby stated. “Are there any messages for me?”

  “Yes, sir. There is a telegram from New York.” The clerk handed over an envelope. “Oh, and a note from a resident.”

  “A resident?” asked Tibby.

  “A lady. Mrs. Consedine.” The clerk lowered his voice and directed their gaze over to the tea garden in the lobby by staring like a pointing hunting dog. “That’s her over there in the pale blue gown and the floral hat.”

  They followed his directions over to an elegant woman seated at a table positioned among the fronds of the potted palms acting as a poor partition from the front desk. She appeared to be enjoying the echoing, tinkling piano music coming from the grand piano in the atrium. The beauty sipped tea from a delicate china cup while the light glowed from her caramel-colored hair and a pair of huge, cornflower blue eyes gazed casually around the room. Mrs. Consedine was both graceful and beautiful, so why was she waiting for Tibby?

  The journalist tore open the note and sucked his teeth as he read the contents. “She wants to meet me. In private.”

  “Why?” snorted Jake his mouth dropping open in disbelief.

  “Don’t underestimate me. That’s my employer’s prerogative,” muttered Tibby. “There could be any number of reasons why such a delightful creature feels drawn to me.”

  “Money?” asked Jake. “Pity? Bad eyesight? How about insanity?”