Innocent Bystander

by C. A. Asbrey

  “Oh, crap,” Nat muttered to himself at the sound of the householder clattering downstairs again. He looked around for somewhere to hide. Under the table was too open as there was no tablecloth. He couldn’t fit behind the dining room door because the sideboard was hard up against it. The kitchen was too far away. There was a folding screen at the far end of the room, but he’d never get there in time, either. There was nowhere else. Nat flattened himself behind the full-length velvet drapes adorning the window and froze.

  His heart pounded, and he did his best to cram his six-foot-two frame against the wall, but Bartholemew merely crossed over the hallway to the drawing room. From his vantage point, Nat could hear the clattering of glass, followed by the gurgling of some liquid being poured. A drink? Where would Bartholemew settle to drink it?

  The question was answered by the man heading back to the stairs and climbing them once more. As soon as Nat heard the footsteps on the upstairs landing, he took his chance. He darted out and grabbed the paper bag before he scampered back to the kitchen.

  The heavy door was held by bolts, both top and bottom, which he inched out of their housings with delicate care. The first slid back without any great problem, but the bottom bolt was stiffer and harder to move. Nat worked at it, revolving the barrel in the bolt casing until it finally gave. He glanced over his shoulder. One turn of the key in the lock and he was outside, but he was far from out of the woods yet. Bartholemew was upstairs and could easily glance out of the window and notice someone lurking about in his back yard.

  Nat kept to the deepening shadows of the walls and crept over to the back gate. He tested it and felt his heart do a percussive dance of delight at it being unlocked. He loved that high; the flush of adrenaline as he walked away unchecked from nefarious deeds. There was nothing quite like it.

  It wasn’t long before Nat was strolling down South Street with the nonchalance of a man who carried candy in the paper bag in his hand. He grinned at the sight of Jake out on the street ready to back up his nephew.

  “You took your time,” Jake said. “I was starting to worry. I thought I was going to have to knock the door to distract him so you could get away.” His gaze dropped down to the paper bag. “What’s that?”

  “I’ve no idea, but the look on his face when he got it home was kinda unsavory, and he was way too pleased with himself.” Nat opened the bag to display the white granular powder. “I thought it might be a clue to how he kills. I’m gonna take it to a pharmacist to get it tested. It could be some kind of poison.”

  ♦◊♦

  The doorman at the Occidental Hotel pulled open the door, holding it wide with a respectful nod of the head. His burgundy uniform marked him out from patrons and the gold epaulets differentiated him from mere bellboys and waiters clad in plainer versions of the same color. He raised busy brows in query at the man in the gray suit who loitered on the steps.

  “Did you want me to hail you a cab, sir?”

  Jake shook his head. “I’m looking for some information.”

  “Directions, sir? Certainly. The front desk also has some maps if that would be more helpful.”

  “No, I was here this morning and I think I saw my aunt. She moved on before I could call her name, but then all hell broke loose about the murder in room 126 and I lost her.” Jake shifted his weight onto one leg and hoped the doorman didn’t recognize him in smarter clothing. “Did she leave here? I saw her with a man around ten-ish, or maybe even twenty past? She was wearing a black dress and a hat with a veil and was with a man in a frock coat.”

  The doorman shook his head. “It doesn’t ring a bell, but I might have missed them in all the kerfuffle we had this morning. Maybe the desk could help you?”

  Jake shrugged. “She remarried, and I don’t know her new name.”

  “Just a minute.” He turned and gestured to a young lad clad in the same shade of burgundy and a pillbox hat perched on the side of his head. He hung onto the handles of a baggage trolley like a set of monkey bars as the doorman addressed him. “Augie? Have we got an older lady stayin’ here? White hair, black dress, black hat with a veil? This gentleman’s looking for his aunt.”

  Augie nodded. “Yeah, about fifty of ’em. Can you narrow it down?”

  “I think I saw her come out of 128 or a room near there,” answered Jake. “Did anyone like that leave the hotel this morning about ten o’clock?”

  The boy frowned. “Nope. I can’t think of anyone. Come with me and we’ll speak to the desk, sir.”

  Jake’s face brightened. “You’ve been real helpful. Thanks.”

  They strolled in to the lobby of the hotel the intense pattern of the gawdy carpet almost seemed to strobe and distort on the staircase. A different member of staff manned the desk for the afternoon shift, and a relieved Jake took the opportunity to present a different persona than the cowboy who had arrived with Tibby that morning.

  “Mr. Buckminster?” Augie approached the tall thin man rifling through a drawer. “I got a guest here lookin’ for his auntie. He thinks she might have checked out about ten-ish this mornin’? Did she check out, or is she still here?”

  The clerk’s beige face seemed barely distinguishable from his fawn hair. His hollow cheeks and heavy jaw helped to make his smile appear cadaverous. He flicked open the ledger and frowned down at the entries written in immaculate copperplate. The sallow finger trailed down the page. “No ladies checked out this morning, and nobody around that time of either gender. Do you have her name, sir? I can check to see what room she’s in.”

  Jake’s blue eyes widened with regret. “She remarried not too long ago and I can’t remember her new name. Was it Conaughty? Concini, Consedine? It was something like that.”

  “Hmm.” The clerk opened a drawer and fumbled through the cards. “It begins with ‘C’? Nope. We’ve never had anyone under those names staying here. Not since January, anyway. We archive the cards once a year.”

  “Are you sure?” Jake frowned. “I now think it was Consedine. It feels right.”

  “Positive, sir. We’ve had nobody check in under that name since January the first. I could check the previous year’s records for you if that helps?”

  “No, thank you. Old records won’t help.” Jake turned and walked away from the counter, his brow furrowed.

  Augie trotted behind. “That wasn’t much good, was it, sir?”

  “No, but it wasn’t down to folks not tryin’. You’ve been great.” Jake pulled out a banknote, eyeing the bellboy with caution. “Augie, did you have a very attractive lady stayin’ here? She was drinkin’ tea over there earlier today. She wore a pale blue dress and hat.”

  Augie grinned, a gap-toothed crack which stretched across his face. “Yeah. I saw her. She was real pretty. She wasn’t stayin’ here, though. She just met a cowboy and went upstairs with him.” He flashed his brows and winked suggestively. “You know how it is. I didn’t see her leave. As long as they look respectable we don’t bother folks.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Jake sighed and handed over the dollar, realizing he was going round in circles. “Thanks, son.”

  ♦◊♦

  Tibby was dressed in the only clean clothes the police could scrape together—a pair of overalls folded up multiple times at the bottom, massive hobnailed boots, and a way too-small jacket which appeared to have come from a child fallen on hard times. The lack of a shirt over his rotund torso showed hairy pink skin over the top of the bib and gave the little man a look of one of the three little pigs after his house had fallen in on top of him.

  He paused and spoke to the doorman of the Occidental Hotel who delivered a curt nod and ushered him over to a side door. Jake grinned to himself as he looked out from the atrium. Tibby had managed to gain entry dressed as a tramp, but this attire was obviously a step too far for even the most eccentric of residents. Jake listened to the raised voices drifting in the air, not quite masked by the tinkling piano in the atrium. It was obvious that Tibby wasn’t getting the red carpet rolled o
ut in welcome after the bloodbath in room 126. Jake sat, deciding to observe proceedings in comfort. This dispute had every chance of being the best show in town.

  A carpet bag was tossed out in the street, followed by the little journalist trotting after it. Jake couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could see the gesticulations becoming more fraught when confronted by a massive trunk being rolled out onto the street. After that, the gestures verged on the obscene.

  Reinforcements suddenly appeared in the shape of Augie and a troop of bellboys who hauled the bags out to the sidewalk and walked off, leaving Tibby with no choice but to either guard them from theft or return to the fray.

  Disappointed by the lack of any spectacular act of retaliation from Tibby, Jake relented and stood. He strolled out to the sidewalk, grinning at the outraged man ranting at the staff in an impressive stream of invective. The melody of the words carried anger, but the meaning of many remained arcane.

  “Come back out here, you pumped-up throttlebottom,” yelled Tibby. “Tell that cowardly concilliabule of flunkies to go and fetch the manager. Let him throw me out himself, that dentiloquent bletcherous zounderkite. What are you standing there for, you scobbleblotchers? Go and get him!”

  Jake strolled over. “Have you tried speakin’ to them in English?”

  Tibby turned his round eyes up at the gunman. “Jake? What are you doing here?”

  “Lookin’ for you, among other things. They’ve turfed you out? You can’t say it’s unexpected. I saw that room.”

  “They have already been assured by my editor that the newspaper will pay for the room to be completely redecorated. I was an innocent dupe. They’re punishing the victim. This is an outrage.”

  Jake’s face lit with suppressed laughter. “Innocent? This is me you’re talkin’ to, Tibby.”

  “I was attacked.”

  “Yeah, well. You gotta expect that when you cut through life the way you do. The police said Mrs. Consedine was workin’ for another journalist? Who is he, and what did he take from your room?”

  “My dear, naïve friend. She wasn’t working for another journalist. She is my rival journalist. Of course, I’ve never laid eyes on her up until now, so I didn’t know who she was when she came into my room to distract me from the hoodlum who attacked me.”

  “A female journalist?” Jake shook his head. “Sheesh. What is the world comin’ to?”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so that’s a bit rich coming from a man working with a lady Pinkerton.”

  “I had the same problem with Abi when I first met her.” Jake folded his arms. “She ain’t usual, or I wouldn’t tolerate it.”

  “Well, Callie isn’t usual, either. A more confounding female is yet to stalk this earth.”

  “Callie?”

  Tibby nodded. “Her real name is Caroline Reynard, and she is far from run-of-the-mill. She’s ruthless, cunning, and as sneaky as her namesake.”

  “Huh?”

  “Reynard. It’s French for fox.” Tibby made to wipe his nose on his sleeve but stared down at the forearm exposed by the undersized jacket. He dropped his arm and frowned. “She writes under the name of Calliope. She’s the muse of eloquence and epic poetry. It’s also close to her pet name of Callie,” Tibby sighed. “If you ask me she should write under the name of Nemesis, the Greek goddess of revenge. She’s a real tough lady.”

  “Do any of you fellas use your own names?” chuckled Jake. “It’s like dealing with a band of outlaws.”

  “I bow to your superior experience in that field.” Tibby turned back to his luggage, dismay washing over his face. “What am I supposed to do now? They won’t even let me back in to change. No decent hotel’ll let me in looking like this.” The cornflower blue eyes lit as an idea struck. “Ah, wait a minute. He pushed the trunk down and flipped open the lid. “Here.” Jake found a set of red combination underwear clinging to his face. “—and I’ll need a shirt. Hold these socks.”

  Jake’s eyes widened at the sight of Tibby pulling off his jacket. “I’m sayin’ this to you a lot today, but you can’t do that here.”

  “Why not? They won’t let me change in the hotel.” Tibby dropped the jacket on the sidewalk and fumbled with the straps on his dungarees. “Let their hoity-toity guests see my fine pink derriere right outside their door.”

  Jake pulled the newly-flung shirt from his face. “Tibby, the ladies don’t want to see that. Hell, I don’t want to see that!”

  The doorman strode up, his military bearing underscoring the seriousness of his tone. “What’s going on here? We can’t have this outside the front door. Move along or I’ll call the law.”

  “You call away. I’ll be done by the time they get here,” Tibby trilled, dropping the bib on the overalls and exposing a flabby plump torso with fluffy man-breasts. He started on the side buttons. “They didn’t give me any underwear.”

  “Look.” Jake dropped the journalist’s clothes on the sidewalk. “Let him get changed in your office. Please. He ain’t got an ounce of shame—” He turned back to Tibby and snatched at the falling trousers. “Don’t you dare drop ’em. I’m warnin’ you, Tibby. I ain’t goin’ back to that police station. I’m a busy man.” Jake’s imploring eyes swept back to the doorman. “Please. Five minutes to change in your bag storage room, and I’ll make sure I get him outta here. I promise.”

  “Five minutes. Not a second more.” The doorman nodded.

  “That’s all we need.” Jake forcibly marched a hollering Tibby on his tiptoes to the baggage room by lifting both the front and back of the overalls. “Then I’ll make sure he gets in a cab to another hotel. You ain’t the only ones who want rid of him.”

  Chapter 11

  The pharmacist pulled open the cash drawer and carefully inserted the notes in their slot. The retaining clip sprung back into place with a fierce snap which made the small man yank back his fingers with a jerk.

  Herbert Johns’s hand formed into a protective fist as he stared at the recalcitrant drawer. “I’ll have to see to that. It’s like a damned man trap.” He darted a shamed look at Abigail. “Sorry about the language, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “Don’t give it a second thought.”

  “So?” asked Nat. “What’s the white powder. Is it a poison?”

  “Anything can kill you if you take enough of it, even water.” Mr. Johns slid the paper bag toward Nat and flipped open his ledger to read his notes. “It’s magnesium sulfate.” He stared at Nat’s blank face and clarified. “Epsom salts.”

  “Epsom salts? I’ve heard of those. What are they used for?”

  “Any number of things from a cleaning agent, treating gout, a laxative, to a muscle relaxant. It’s even used for drying up breast milk.” The pharmacist darted another look at Abigail. “Sorry to be so coarse in front of a lady.”

  “Coarse? You are merely explaining the uses,” she answered. “Please don’t worry on my account.”

  Nat frowned. “So it’s not poison?”

  “Is there any particular reason for you to ask? Your request to analyze it was out of the ordinary enough, but this course of questioning is very concerning.”

  “We know.” Abigail cut in. “We suspect someone is trying to kill my sister. The man bought this today.”

  “Someone?” Mr. Johns’s brows met. “Who’s killing who? Shouldn’t you inform the authorities? This is serious.”

  “We have a Pinkerton working on it,” Nat replied. “We’re just covering things off. So what’s the commonest use for this stuff?”

  “Cleaning, bathing, new mothers. It’s an anti-inflammatory, so bathing sprains and strains, bruising. Anything like that. Whatever your suspect is up to, I doubt this is anything to do with it, unless—” The pharmacist flicked up a brow.

  “Unless what?” Abigail and Nat asked in unison.

  “People have died because their bowels were too open when using laxatives. Some women find it’s a way to lose weight and get carried away. They dehydrate and lose vital sal
ts. It’ll take some time though and there’d be quite a considerable amount of—” he paused and glanced at Abigail once more, “shall we call them—symptoms?”

  “Do you mean fecal matter? Diarrhea?” she asked. “I am a woman of the world. Please, speak plainly.” Her brow creased. “I take it nobody would say the body was unmarked after all that? A doctor would know how they died?”

  “Body?” Herbert Johns shook his head. “When people have those kinds of symptoms they’re ill for days and totally debilitated. A doctor is already in attendance in the normal course of events. The victim would also know they were consuming the powder.”

  “Would there be anything on the body to show what happened after they died if there was no doctor?” Nat leaned on the counter.

  “Anyone medically trained would spot those signs.” Johns shrugged. “They’d be empty and the dehydrated skin wouldn’t spring back when pinched like a normal person’s.” He flushed and shuffled as he flicked another look of discomfort at talking about such things in front of Abigail. “And most of all, there would be redness around the back passage. The bowels would have been very active. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Abigail sighed. “And most of all, nobody would say they were fine in the days before their death.”

  “Indeed they wouldn’t.” Johns nodded, a grave glint in his eye. “This would be a most ineffective poison. I think you can dismiss Epsom salts as a method of doing away with your sister, madam. Unless a crate of it dropped on her head.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Johns.” She opened the door to the cacophony of hoof beats, yells, and rattling vehicles which made the streets of San Francisco so noisy and dirty. “We have been over-cautious in our fears.”

  The men watched her walk into the street where she stood outside the glass door pulling on her white day-gloves. “I take it you’re humoring your wife? Is there really a Pinkerton, or is that just a way for you to stop her making a fool of herself with the police?”