by C. A. Asbrey
“It could be my work.” Tibby scowled.
“My next guess was gonna be some kind of medical experiment.”
“Shall I get a bellboy to inform her you are available?” asked the clerk.
“No.” Tibby mused, scratching his stubbly chin. “Give me moment. I need to confer with my colleague.” He dropped a hand on Jake’s arm. “Can I have a word?”
They moved away from the desk.
“Do you fancy a job?”
Jake’s brows met in a frown. “With you? The answer to that would be all kinds of nope.”
Tibby shifted from one foot to the other. “Fine. Let me put it another way. Will you guard me for this meeting? A man like me has many enemies.”
“Guard you?” Jake shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. I might consider workin’ for her, though. You might piss on her potted palm and ruin her tea.”
“Do you want this photograph or not?”
“Tibby, don’t start—”
The little man’s mouth pursed like a cat’s backside on a frosty morning. “I live in a dangerous world and I’ve already been attacked on this job. Give me a moment, then show her up to my room. If she’s up to something, she’ll be less likely to try anything if she thinks I have a gunman sitting outside. Do that, and I won’t just give you the photograph. I’ll give you Dewees’s file, too.”
The gunman’s blue eyes narrowed. “That’s it? I just wait outside.”
“That’s it. It’s all I want you to do.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you just get a picture without all the helpful information I collected.”
Jake huffed in irritation. “Fine. Go up and get yourself prepared, or whatever it is you have to do. I’ll bring her up.”
“Here. Have the key. Show her you can get in any time you want.” Tibby nodded and scuttled off up the stairs. “That’ll see off trouble if she’s got something planned.”
Jake made his way over to the tea tables muttering under his breath. “Yellow-bellied, candy-assed, chicken-livered, double dealin’, low down—”
He stopped beside the siren in blue and swept off his hat in a show of propriety. “Mrs. Consedine? You left a note for Mr. Dunbar in 126?”
The cornflower eyes brightened, and she put down her cup. “Mr. Dunbar?” She eyed Jake up and down. “I have been seriously misinformed. I had no idea you were so handsome.”
“I ain’t.” Jake shook his head. “I mean I ain’t Mr. Dunbar. Not that I ain’t—” He grimaced. “Anyhows, Mr. Dunbar asked me to bring you up to his room. He’s the one I was talkin’ to a few minute ago. Maybe you saw him? He’s the one who kinda looks like a turtle without its shell. Your information was right on the nose.”
The pretty face fell but she dropped her napkin on the table and stood. “He has people to show guests to his room? How grand of him. Lead on, MacDuff.”
“MacDuff? No. The name’s Jake, ma’am.”
“No. It’s Shakespeare—” She stared into Jake’s frowning face before she reached down and picked up a carpet bag from the floor. “Jake? Of course it is. How silly of me.”
♦◊♦
Jake was thoroughly bored. He’d been sitting in the hallway outside of Tibby’s room for ages. The chair was designed for a dining room and a prolonged spell on the wooden seat made his butt ache. It affected muscles in a way a day in the saddle didn’t. He’d tried sitting upright with his arms folded, unfolded, and even dangling by his sides. It was still uncomfortable.
He’d had his long legs crossed and uncrossed, splayed, and even stretched out so far the couple from the next room had found their way through the hallway blocked. The gray-haired matron had clucked in disapproval at him until he had drawn his feet back to allow them to pass. The birdcage veil of her black hat had covered the top half of her face, but the pursed lips were a good enough indication of her reproval as the pair swept by.
Jake pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open. Twenty-two minutes past ten. They’d been in there for almost an hour, and Jake had to get back to South Street. Abi and Nat would be expecting him. He frowned and closed the timepiece before returning it to his pocket.
He stood and wandered over to the door, pressing an ear against the door. Silence. He tapped his knuckles and called out. “Tibby? Is this gonna take much longer? I gotta go.”
There was no reply, so Jake rapped at the door once more, harder and with more insistence. “Tibby. I can’t stay. Open this door.”
There was something about the thick, heavy silence which felt wrong. Tibby was anything but quiet, so it was fair to assume any room containing him wouldn’t be, either. Jake knocked again. “Tibby?”
All he could hear was the sound of his own breath echoing against the wooden door. A muscle in his jaw flexed and he felt in his pocket for the room key he’d been asked to hold. He grabbed the wooden fob and called out once more. “I’m comin’ in, Tibby. Make sure you ain’t doin’ anythin’ indecent.” He paused, running through what he knew about the man. “Or strange.”
The key rattled in the lock and the door swung slowly open. Jake’s jaw dropped open at the carnage which greeted his horrified eyes.
The room was awash with blood; splattered over furniture, walls, and fabrics. Gouts of gore lay littered on the floor, and adhered to the wall behind the bundle of bloody petticoats in the corner. Thick claret dripped from the drapes in a sickening seep and intestines dangled over furniture and snaked across the floor. Tibby lay unconscious near the door, a knife near his hand, his blood-drenched clothes stained red.
Worst of all, the pale blue dress was saturated in blood and revealed what looked like a dismembered carcass beneath the pulled-back frills. It looked like she’d tried to hide under the bed and had been dragged out as her legs were hidden, but the torso appeared from underneath. The clothing was pulled over her head so all Jake could see were the bare bones of the ribs and the open belly covered in blood with what remained of her intestines.
“Dear God.” Jake’s reaction to the trauma robbed his voice of its power, his eyes drawn to the intestines strewn on the floor near what looked like half a kidney. “Tibby! What the hell have you done?”
His breath came in gasps of shock and he began to feel the tell-tale tightening of his chest and the tingling in his fingers as he backed out of the room. He was always like this when it was women and children. Jake could never cope with seeing their bodies smashed and bloodied. It brought back his damaged past and the broken ghosts of his childhood reared up in his mind’s eye making him gulp down a thick knot of angst. The spiraling anxiety struck him mute as he staggered into the hall and dropped to his knees with his face numbing and his head spinning, unable to breathe.
A liveried bellboy hurried to his side. “Sir? Are you ill? What’s wrong?”
Jake shook his head and pointed at the open door unable to utter more than a couple of words. “Get help.”
Chapter 9
A pair of harassed hazel eyes glanced up from the front desk of the police station situated at First and Mission. The sergeant’s pen paused over the inkwell and flicked back and forth in irritation as he raised his bushy brows to prompt the man with the full dark beard and earnest dark eyes to get on with whatever he had come to bother him with, and to be quick about it.
Nat’s smile still warmed under the disguise. “I’m Tom Bartlett and I’m a Pinkerton. Who do I speak to about alerting you to an escaped prisoner in this area?”
“Ya lost one, huh?” the sergeant chortled. His features relaxed. “What’s he done?”
“Fraud and embezzlement. And it’s a she. It’s a woman.”
“You let a woman get away? Overpower ya, did she?” the officer guffawed. He turned to the clean- shaven young officer sorting through wire filing baskets behind him. “George, have you ever heard the like? The Pinkertons just lost a woman prisoner. And they call us unprofessional. A woman.”
“I’ve never called you anything of the kind,” Nat said. “I have r
eason to believe she may present at this station. That’s why I’m here.”
“Here?” The sergeant’s brows knitted. “She’s dumb enough to walk into a police station and she still outwitted the Pinkertons?”
“Well, that’s as may be. I wasn’t there. The agent who lost her established that she attached herself to men delivering silver ore from Boulder Creek. She’s fooled those poor saps into believing she was kidnapped by our man so they’ll protect her from him. Her only problem is those fine upstanding citizens will probably insist on seeking help from the law when they get here and this is the first police station they’ll come to. We think she’ll file the report just to save face in front of her helpers. If someone here isn’t aware what’s going on, she’ll slip away and we’ll lose her.”
A deep furrow formed between the sergeant’s eyebrows. “And how’d you know something like that if’n you’ve lost her?”
Nat tapped the side of his nose. “We have someone on the wagon train for another reason I’m not prepared to talk about. He can’t break cover or we’ll lose months of work. It’s not related to this woman. It’s a convenient coincidence, but he managed to tell my man about her claims. Just hold onto her until we can come and get her, will ya? She’s as slippery as a peeled eel. We would go in and take her, but she’s attractive and got a bunch of dupes ready to defend her honor. Our man on the silver delivery’s trying to persuade her to come here to prevent a shootout where innocent folks might get hurt.”
“Aaah, I see.” The pen got dunked in the ink and the correct form was selected in a ceremonial manner. The officer looked up at Nat. “Name?”
“I told you that. I’m Tom Bartlett,” Nat lied.
“No, her name.”
“Ah, right. It’s Madeleine MacKay, but she pronounces it like Mac-eye. She says it’s the right way, but I think it’s an alias. Put down both versions.” Nat pointed down to the form. “And she also uses the alias of Mrs. Bartholemew. She isn’t married, of course. You know what these criminal types are like. They’re all over each other like a box of rats.”
“I surely do. Description?”
“About five one, slim. Hair gold to strawberry blonde, it’s very unusual. Eyes green.” Nat paused. “And she’s very, very attractive. Some say she’s beautiful. I haven’t seen her myself, though.”
The hazel eyes gleamed in interest. “And you have a warrant?”
Nat slipped the folded document out of his breast pocket and handed it over. “I got you a certified copy right here, Sergeant. You can keep this.”
“Here, George.” The policeman turned and handed the warrant over to the younger officer behind him. “Put this up on the board.” He returned to Nat. “When do you think this train will get here?”
“Anytime. It may even be tonight.”
“And where can we contact you?”
“I don’t want to disclose that. I’ll call in tomorrow morning to see if she’s appeared.”
The sergeant nodded. “So you only want us to arrest her if she turns up here? We don’t have to go looking for her or anything? Sure, I think we can manage that. I’m Sergeant North. I’m on the late turn. I’ll hand it over to the next duty officer when I’m done. We’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Bartlett.”
Nat nodded and turned, pleased nobody asked to see any identification and that he hadn’t needed to bluff his way out of that situation. His heart dropped into his feet at the sight of a deathly-pale Jake being escorted into the building by a uniformed officer followed by two men wearing clumpy boots with their suits. They were obviously detectives.
He froze on the spot, blinking in surprise at seeing his uncle here. Had Tibby turned him in? Where was the double-dealing journalist? The older of the two detectives strode up to the desk and called out to the desk sergeant.
“Jack. We got us a witness here. I’m takin’ interview room two. Mark it booked for me, will ya? Is the doc still here? I need to speak to him, too.”
Sergeant North shook his head. “Nope. He left the prisoner in the cell to sleep it off. I take it the woman’s dead?”
“About as dead as anyone could be. It made me feel quite queer looking right into her open guts like that. The body’s like that girl in England a few years ago. That one who was all cut up and left in bits.” The detective pondered. “What was her name again? It was all over the newspapers.”
“Sweet Fanny Adams,” answered Sergeant North. “I’ll always remember that. Eight years old, and body sliced to pieces. She was the same age as my Maria at the time. Shockin’ stuff.”
“A body cut up?” asked Nat, watching Jake’s eyes widen at hearing his nephew’s voice come out of the hirsute face. “There’s been a murder?”
“Nothing for the Pinkertons to do here,” chuckled Sergeant North. “We’ve already got the killer tucked up in our cells.” North waved his pen at the detectives. “This here’s a Pinkerton, boys. They lost a female prisoner, and need our help. It looks like he could learn a few things from the San Francisco Police Department.”
Nat glanced at Jake who stood silent and closed-down beside the lawmen. “Well done, detective. You got the killer already?”
“Inspector,” the man replied. “All our detectives are called inspectors.” The man with light brown hair and a thin mustache thrust out a hand. “Inspector Honeybun. Clayton Honeybun. Folks call me Clay.”
“Tom Bartlett. Call me Tom. Yeah, we messed up. I’m not too big to admit it.” A humble grin spread over Nat’s face. “You got the killer already? Good work.”
“He was passed out on the floor. It wasn’t exactly hard.” Clay grinned. He gestured with his head toward Jake. “This one here found the body.”
Nat’s eyes glittered at Jake. “So he’s not a suspect?”
“Nah, just some poor sap who found it. I need to get a statement from him.”
“Any chance of some water?” asked Jake, breaking his silence at last. “I ain’t feelin’ too great. I just saw a woman split open like a pig.”
“I think we can do better’n that.” Clay frowned. He called out to the officer behind the desk sergeant. “George, take Mr. Black, here, through to my desk and give him some coffee. He’s had a shock, so put some sugar in. Constable Smith’ll take care of you. Make yourself comfortable.”
Nat put his hat on and tipped the brim with his fingers. “I’ve gotta get going. Congratulations again at wrapping up the case so quickly.”
He pushed past a drunk, whose legs seemed to be made entirely of rubber, being escorted in by uniformed men at the end of their tether, and sauntered into the boisterous streets of the midday crush. Nat paused wondering whether to wait for Jake here or back at the apartment when his gaze fell on the nearby restaurant. Yes, a window seat over there was just what he needed as a vantage point.
♦◊♦
Inspector Honeybun tweaked his pants to stop them bagging at the knees as he sat in the interview room with Jake. “You got me a coffee too, George? Thanks. We’ll have to get a keen officer like you in our department.”
Officer George Smith beamed. “That’s my aim, inspector. I want to get into your department. It’s why I joined.”
“Well, keep it up and I’ll make sure the lieutenant knows about you next time we have a vacancy.” Clay watched the grinning officer leave the interview room and turned his expressive gray eyes on Jake. “Feeling better?”
Jake nodded. “So what do you need from me?”
“The full story. Let’s start at the beginning. When did you first meet this man? The accused.”
Jake hesitated, unsure of what Tibby was going to disclose. He decided to be as candid as possible. There was no good reason not to be straight. “We met him in a town called Bannen a long time ago. He’s a journalist for some big newspaper in New York.”
“Journalist?”
“Yeah. His pen name is Dogsberry or something like that. Someone explained it’s from Shakespeare and it’s a joke on the law being bad. It’s all too clever for m
e. Why can’t folks just use their own name?”
“Yeah, I say that too. I can’t be doing with false identities.” Clay nodded, failing to notice Jake squirming at the mention of aliases. “What’s his real name?”
“Tiberius F. Dunbar. He says the ‘F’ don’t stand for anything. What a name, huh?”
“Is he violent? How well do you know him?”
“Not too well.” shrugged Jake. “I ain’t seen him since. We weren’t friends, or nothin’. We just stayed at the same hotel. I was there workin’ on a job. No. He ain’t violent. He’s the yellowest coward I ever met. He hid behind a tree at a train robbery once and wasn’t even ashamed.”
Clay scribbled some notes. “What kind of work do you do?”
Jake dropped his head. “Security. Banks and railways, that kind of thing.”
“Are you working here?”
Jake shook his head. “I’m visitin’ a friend who got married not so long back. I never made it to the weddin’. I’m staying with them in South Street. Nat and Abi Roberts.”
“So, how did you meet the accused here, in San Francisco?”
“We were coming back from a bar last night. Nat and me. Abi was at home, of course, and a couple of men were beatin’ up a tramp. We stepped in and they ran away. You could’ve knocked us over with a feather when we found out it was Tibby. He said he dressed like a tramp for a story he’s investigatin’. We brought him back to the Roberts’ place where he spent the night, so he could be looked after. I took him back to the hotel this mornin’, and Mrs. Consedine’d left a message at the front desk askin’ to see him. I don’t know why. He wanted me to keep watch because he thought someone was out to get him. I thought it was dumb because it was just a woman, but I agreed to stick around. When he didn’t appear after a while, I knocked on his door.” The concern swirling in the gunman’s blue eyes was all too real. “You know the rest.”
“Yeah.” Clay’s dark mustache moved in tandem with his grimace. “I do. I ain’t seen nothing like that in my life outside of a butcher’s shop.”
They both looked up at the opening door to see two men stride in carrying galvanized buckets. Clay leaped to his feet in deference. “Captain Sumner? Doctor Bishop?”
