Innocent Bystander

by C. A. Asbrey

  “Has that ever been done?” Nat’s forehead wrinkled in concern.

  “Not that I know of, but I’d do it that way.” Abigail arched a brow. “I look at how I’d kill, then try to catch myself out. It’s my job to stay ahead of murderers. Science is moving fast.”

  “You have the brain of a master criminal, Abi.” Nat sighed. “The only problem is I’m starting to wonder if you have it pickled in a jar.”

  “You want an ordinary woman?” She cast a hand toward the door. “There are millions of them out there. Feel free to start right now.”

  He shook his head. “Not when there’s extraordinary right here in front of me.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” She patted him gently on the chest with both hands as he approached her. “I’m still no nearer to finding out how he does this, though.” Her watery smile quivered for a moment before disappearing. “We can’t keep Maddie locked up forever. She’ll get out, and she’ll come home to South Street where Bartholemew will be waiting for her.”

  “Bartholemew won’t harm her.” Nat’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Mr. Quinn, I’m perfectly capable of threatening people myself.”

  “Yeah, but Jake and me probably make a bit more of an impact, darlin’.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m perfectly capable of warning that man.”

  “Sure, you are. You’ve scared me to death more times than I can count. It’s just that sometimes, like it or not, it takes muscle. We’re a team. Let me help you do the things I’m good at, and you get on with the things only you can do.” Nat’s brow creased. “We’ve had this problem before, Abi. You need to trust me enough to let me earn my place in your life.” His eyes darkened. “Besides, when women are driven to threats, they’re usually right at the end of their tether—just like you are now.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I’m kinda scared you might actually kill him.”

  Her eyes rose to meet his and she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “So am I.”

  He stroked her hair. “Then, we’re agreed. You leave it to us. It’s normal to try to protect people you love.” His gaze bored into her. “And I do love you, Abi.”

  Her eyes misted over. “I love you, too. And you’re right.” She grasped his hand and pressed tight. Her face tilted up in cheerful challenge. “Show me you’re worth it, and I’ll meet you every inch of the way.”

  “We need a distraction.” Nat’s dimples deepened. “I do some of my best thinking when I’m pacing or mucking out a stall. Fancy a nice relaxing walk where we can think about how to commit murder?”

  “Something mundane. Yes. That is how I do my thinking, too.” Abigail grabbed her bonnet, the ribbons unfurling across her skirts with a festive slash of scarlet.

  “Good idea.” Nat picked up his own hat. He held the door open for her and locked it behind them. He followed Abigail along the hallway and down the steps to the street.

  They both drew back in shock at the sight of dozens of police officers barreling into the street, the metal hooves of the horses pulling the substantial prison wagon ringing and sparking on the cobbled streets. The cacophony of rattling bridles and men yelling filled the air. Uniformed officers swarmed everywhere, cordoning off the street and securing a perimeter with drawn guns, as a burly man bustled around barking orders. Abigail sucked in a breath and Nat’s hand fell down to his weapon. She instinctively stepped in front of him as an officer bounded up the front stoop toward them. Her heart stilled as she waited for the inevitable. How were they going to get out of this one?

  “We’re making an arrest.”

  Abigail gulped. “Who?”

  “Nat Quinn.” The officer’s eyes shone with excitement. “We got information he’s here.”

  Abigail’s stomach turned over and stepped back, just avoiding Nat’s toes and spread her arms even further over him, hoping she could stop him from drawing his gun. “Nat Quinn? What makes you think he’s here?”

  “We got information.” The officer tapped the side of his nose to indicate extreme discretion. “So you folks get back inside and stay away from the windows, huh?”

  “Folks?” Nat spoke at last, his voice taught and strange while Abigail still backed up against him and panted in rapid gasps of anxiety. “We need to get inside?”

  The officer nodded. “That’s what I said. We got that house over there covered.” He pointed over at the Bartholemew place. “We don’t want innocent folks caught up in it if he tries to shoot his way out.”

  Abigail turned confused eyes up at Nat. “They want us to go back in.”

  “Can’t we just leave?” asked Nat. “We’ve got somewhere to be.” He pointed up the street. “We’ll be real fast.”

  The officer frowned. “Well, sure. But you’d better be quick about it.”

  Nat grabbed Abigail’s arm and dragged her down the steps. “We’ll be gone before you know it.”

  They scuttled past the lawman and out to the street. Abigail looked back at the police operation as they strode as fast as they could toward town. Their eyes met, whites flashing with knowledge that an arrest would be the undoing of both of them, but they maintained proud straight backs as they walked as fast they could without attracting attention. The corner onto Kentucky Street provided a refuge, and they collapsed against a wall, heaving huge sighs of relief.

  Nat peered around behind them. His voice drifted back to her as he tried to understand how they had escaped capture. “They’re still there, at Bartholemew’s house.” He turned, his incredulous eyes fixed on Abigail. “They’re arresting him. They’re taking him out now. Why?”

  “More to the point, why are they looking for Nat Quinn on South Street in San Francisco? It’s full of ships’ captains and merchants commissioning loads. It’s not your area of operation, and it’s not a haunt for criminals. It’s a wealthy street for people in the maritime industry.”

  “They think he’s me.” Nat frowned. “He looks nothing like me. He doesn’t even have brown eyes.”

  “So much for a walk to think of something mundane. Someone must have recognized you in the street. You have to get out of here and lie low.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. All I need to do is disguise myself. I’ll stay at a hotel until I know what’s going on, though. What was the name of that one Tibby stayed at? That sounded like my kinda place.”

  “Once it dies down I’ll go and fetch a disguise. I need you to think about who could have recognized you. Someone has, they’ve just got the wrong address.”

  “Yeah.” Nat nodded. “I don’t want you staying on your own, though. Jake can disguise himself, too, and stay with you. I can sort Tibby out. How hard can it be to mind a journalist, anyway?”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake watched Tibby emerge from the telegraph office with a huge grin. The journalist looked both ways and scuttled across the road on stubby legs. The gunman pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning against and fixed the little man with his lambent blue eyes.

  “So?”

  “As I thought. They’ve been contacting the Chicago Tribune regularly from that office,” said Tibby.

  “How did you know it was that one?” asked Jake.

  “It’s at 153 Montgomery Street. The Occidental is at 253 Montgomery. It’s the nearest one. As soon as you told me the doorman hadn’t seen the old lady leave after the incident, it was obvious to me they didn’t leave at all. They went to another room. They’re still there.” Tibby’s eyes gleamed with cunning. “The clerk is going to pull down the blind when the person contacting the Chicago Tribune leaves the office. All you’ve got to do is follow them back to the hotel and see what room they go into.”

  “That’s it? Like a woman ain’t gonna notice a man followin’ her back to her room?”

  “It probably won’t be a woman. Callie has a coterie of helpers she uses and they play as dirty as they come. The last time I met any of her men, I had to be put out.”

  Jake shrugged. “So? I’ve bee
n thrown out of loads of places.”

  Tibby blinked at him. “I don’t mean ejected. When I say I was put out, I mean I was on fire.”

  “Huh?”

  Tibby nodded. “Precisely. They’re about as underhanded as they come. You have no idea how cutthroat the newspaper business is. They’ll do anything to get the scoop on a story.”

  Jake shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he considered this information. “I’ve met worse. There’s a flaw in your plan, though. I can’t stand here twenty-four hours a day, and they know you.”

  Tibby’s jaunty grin did nothing to reassure. “Ah, but you forget these are newspaper people, and Callie’s friends will be cub reporters who will also be tasked with reporting on other stories from the region. They don’t get the privilege of reporting on just one story. They’ll be out on the road to learn the ropes, and they’ll have to pay their way.”

  “Can you get to the point?” Jake scowled.

  “The point is, that Callie is working on just one story, but her gang will have to find other stories to submit or get sacked. They’ll find them at places like courthouses and police stations, but they’ll have to have them in early enough to be edited, typeset in a chase, galley proofed for errors, killed out, and mounted in the hellbox ready to go before the presses start their run at midnight.”

  Jake snorted with impatience. “Tibby, if you don’t start makin’ more sense they’re gonna put you away.”

  “I mean they’ll have their court stories and the like in already, but if they have anything to add, they’ll have to have it in by about eight. We know when they’re likely to come, and they’ll probably be men. It’ll either be noon-ish, six-ish, or just before eight.”

  “So why hell didn’t you just say that, Tibby? You’ve got your head so far up your ass you could chew your food twice. What was all that gibberish about hellboxes and killin’?”

  “Printing talk. I can’t be held responsible for what you fail to understand. I’m not some kind of sage.”

  “If you mean the stubby little weeds I could see a resemblance.”

  “Never mind.” Tibby pulled out his pocket watch. “They’ve got about twenty minutes to send in their late-developing stories to make the deadline for tomorrow’s edition. If they don’t show this evening, we know they’ll be here around noon tomorrow when the courts stop for lunch. As soon as we know where their room is, we can get the file back. It’ll be easy.”

  “With you? Nothin’s easy with you, Tibby.”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake strolled over the garish carpet of the Occidental Hotel and headed for the door. The two men he’d followed back had been on the third floor, in rooms 289 and 293. As all the even numbers were on one side of the corridor and the odd numbers on the other, it meant that 291 was smack bang in the middle of their rooms. Given he knew a feature of the Occidental was that all the rooms had Jack-and-Jill doors to connect any number of them into suites, Jake was willing to bet 291 either belonged to another of their colleagues or Mrs. Callie Reynard, herself.

  He strolled into the street, comfortably cooler now the burning heat of day had receded, and frowned at Tibby, bustling toward him.

  “What are you doin’? They can’t see us together. They could be lookin’ out of the window.”

  The little man bustled with excitement, jiggling from foot to foot. He reached out and grabbed Jake’s arm. “I’ve just been to the telegraph office myself. Nat Quinn has been arrested in South Street, right here in town!”

  Jake’s jaw dropped open and his stomach sank like lead. “Arrested? Here?”

  “Yeah, that’s where you’re staying isn’t it? I need to get back there and get the story for my paper. Were your colleagues involved? Is that why you’re here? Give me the scoop, Jake. I’m begging you.”

  Jake rubbed his face, his eyes widening with concern. “I think they might very well have been involved. It’s not what we’re doing here, though. Have you seen any of them? Where’s Abi?”

  “No, I haven’t. I came to get you. Let’s get back there and see what’s happening.”

  A frown flickered over Jake’s face, his gun hand flinching subconsciously. “The nearest police station is Mission, isn’t it? You go to South Street. I’m going there.”

  Tibby’s round eyes danced with the thrill of the chase. “Can I come?”

  Jake shook his head, his scowling face delivering a grave warning. “No. You’ll get in the way. You won’t be allowed where I’m goin’, anyway. Go find Abi.” Jake strode off, but he turned to drop a final veiled threat at the sound of following footsteps. “I ain’t jokin’, Tibby. Stay away. This is a serious business and I ain’t messin’. Get yourself off to South Street. I’ve got other things to do.”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake strolled into the police station, still wondering what exactly he was doing there and what he was intending to achieve. Was he going to make things worse? Could he be recognized, too? His head buzzed as much as the building, which whirled with action and rang with the excited voices of animated lawmen. The last time Jake had been here, the sergeant’s high desk had been a watchtower of sternness where the man in charge held court and kept control of everyone who walked through the door.

  Today, the desk was abandoned, unmanned and empty, while uniformed men bustled around clutching pieces of paper and gesticulating at one another. A familiar man in a tweed jacket strode by, inspiring the gunman to reach out and grab him by the arm.

  “Inspector Honeybun? Clay Honeybun? Remember me? Jake Black? I was the witness to that mess at the Occidental and you told me to get back in touch if I was interested in a job?” The blue eyes gleamed with a zeal Jake hoped Clay would read as enthusiasm instead of desperation. “The place is in chaos. What’s goin’ on here? Has the president arrived or somethin’?”

  Clay grinned in recognition. “Bigger’n that. We just arrested Nat Quinn.”

  “Who?” Jake bluffed.

  “The outlaw. The leader of The Innocents. He’s the most wanted man in the country. He has a reward of six thousand dollars on his head. You must have heard of him in your line.”

  “Oh, him?” Jake nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t associate him with California. Doesn’t he work out Wyoming way?”

  “Yeah,” Clay answered, “but we got information he was here. He’s denying it, of course. We need to get someone who can identify him.”

  “I was on a train they held up once. He was masked but maybe I can help? It’s worth a try. What’ve you got to lose?” Jake’s belly tightened, hoping Clay Honeybun wouldn’t realize that he risked losing a very prominent prisoner at the point of a gun.

  “Hey, that’s gotta be worth a try.” Clay landed a playful punch on Jake’s shoulder. “I knew you’d be good at this. Am I a good judge of character, or what?”

  “Yeah, great.” Jake grinned. “Where is he?”

  “In the cells.” The inspector gestured with his head. “Follow me.”

  Jake suppressed a smile at the lack of any attempt to disarm him or suspect him of any potential wrongdoing. “I hope I can help. I’m not promising anything.”

  He followed the detective through the gate to the back office, a solid wooden panel in the room divider which flapped behind them. The back office was no quieter. In fact, it was worse. Men in questionable suits yelled at officers about their newspapers needing a scoop, ignoring the second most wanted man in the country as he strode toward the cell block armed with a Colt. Nobody but Inspector Clayton Honeybun paid him even least attention.

  The half-light of the quiet cell block signaled a change of ambiance and pace. It was an oasis of calm after the hubbub of the office, albeit with the gamey smell of the drunks, stale urine, and sweaty recidivists. Each new occupant added a new layer of drunken vomit and general nastiness to the malodorous atmosphere.

  Jake crinkled his nose and followed the detective down the corridor toward the cell at the end. He padded over the stone flagstones and glanced at eac
h heavy cast iron door which fitted into the brick walls like a plug. Some had the observation flap down, through which obscenities were hurled or reaching arms stretched out to grab at anyone passing by. Those were more easily avoided than the spit which flew through the air with a random guttural gob, or the insults which varied between doubting their parentage to suggestions of what the incarcerated would like to do to them if they got them alone.

  Clay stopped at the end cell, his hand reaching up to the observation flap through which meals and the like could be passed without opening the door. “It’s this one. Number ten.”

  “Wait.” Jake’s caution kicked in. “I don’t want him to see me. I’ll use the spy hole. I don’t need criminals seeing my face unless I can help it.”

  “Whatever suits you.” Clay released his hold on the catch, leaving the observation flap closed. He stepped back. “Go on.”

  The gunman rotated the flap and placed his blue eye against the spy hole. With a clear view of the inside of the cell he was able to observe the mousey-haired man with the sharp nose who turned to face the door. His heart leaped as relief flooded forward in a rush of joy while the muscles in his gun hand relaxed. It wasn’t Nat. A kernel of caution wormed into his brain and there was one more thing he had to check.

  “Are you sure this is the right cell?”

  Clay nodded. “Positive. I made sure I had a look at him when they brought him in.” He frowned. “Isn’t it him?”

  “I gotta be honest.” Jake turned back to the inspector. “I ain’t sure. He was masked and had his hat pulled down real low. I thought his hair was darker than that, but I really ain’t sure.” He hung his head, sheepish eyes drifting up at the lawman, but resolving not to do a thing to get the wrongly-imprisoned man released. “Sorry, I ain’t been much use.”

  Clay shrugged. “No harm done. It was worth a try.” The inspector jumped aside at a guttural gathering behind him. He stepped over and slammed the observation hatch closed with a resounding bang. “Dammit, Freyus. Don’t make me come in there. I’ll make you eat whatever’s in your slop bucket. Pipe down, will ya!”