“You seem like you’re fitting in,” Dollie noted.
He shrugged. “It’s work. A heap easier than wrangling cows.”
“This is a cow-yard,” Dollie said dryly.
“It’s slightly tamer here.”
“You know most watchmen sample the goods.”
“I’m a professional man, Miss Small.” Riot had his back to the bar, so he could watch the men. He was on roving duty—there to ensure civility. The women usually lingered near him when he was in the saloon. One look from Riot and men thought twice about groping them.
“I don’t believe it,” she murmured. She leaned in closer, her bare shoulder brushing his vest. “You’re not into women, are you?”
Miss Small was in her late thirties, blonde-haired, with green eyes and a quick tongue. She sauntered around with the confidence of a woman completely at ease with herself. And despite her name, she was not small.
“There’s no shame in it,” she whispered. “I’ve seen it all.”
“I’ve seen it all, too,” he said truthfully. It was always dangerous lying to a prostitute. They were keener than detectives at spotting deception. “My mother was a whore. It’s more like family here. And…” He gave her a bashful sort of smile. “I have a sweetheart.”
“Oh?”
“Saving every penny for her.”
“She’s a lucky woman.”
“I consider myself the lucky one, ma’am.” And that was God’s honest truth. Riot would be lost in some dark place without Isobel. He felt it down to his bones. She’d given him a second chance on life.
Dollie gave him a small, sad smile. “You’re a good man to have around, and I don’t say that about many watchmen. It makes me think I should’ve kept mine…” She gazed into her whiskey, then took a long swallow.
“What happened to your man?”
“Oh, you know. The usual.”
The usual could mean a wide spectrum of things. Riot sensed she didn’t want to talk about it, so he changed the subject. “So does that sort of thing go on here? Between men?” Riot asked.
“Everything goes on here, Mr. Kyd.”
“What’s the hotel policy about it?”
“Anything goes,” she said. “Now the watchmen… They can get riled up over two men going at it, but pass them a dollar and they’ll keep their mouth shut about anything.”
“Even murder?” he asked lightly.
Dollie gave him a cheeky look. “So you heard about that?”
“Hard not to. Man found dead in a bed during a raid.”
“No one said it was murder. Some men just give out. I’ve had it happen.”
“What am I supposed to do if that happens?”
She shrugged. “Take him to the morgue. Dump the fellow in a gutter. I don’t give a damn. Just get him out of my bed. I can’t have a stiff taking up space.”
“So why didn’t the watchman on duty do that?”
“I suppose Earl just didn’t notice.”
“Earl doesn’t notice much,” Riot pointed out.
“Oh, he’s all right. But he’s in debt up to his nose. Spends all his earnings on us gals and drink.”
Riot turned slightly towards her. “Are there watchmen who aren’t all right?”
“Why are you fishing for information?”
“I like to know what’s going on.”
“You have two eyes.”
Not good ones, Riot thought wryly. He kept his spectacles in a pocket and only took them out when needed. “I’m afraid I’ve spent one too many hours in the sun.” As William Kyd, he let himself squint. It fit the disguise.
“Still, you never know,” she said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “You don’t often find a decent man in a place like this.”
“I never said I was decent.”
His answer put her at ease. “We get all sorts sniffing around here. Those damn Knights of Chastity are always trying to get men in here to preach our sins to us.”
“They come in here?” he asked, surprised.
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound, full of good humor. “Nearly every week. The last fellow who came sneaking in walked around with his eyes on the ceiling, bright as a brick, and hard as a saint’s statue.”
“And you think I’m some sort of spy?”
She glanced towards the crotch of his fitted Levis. “I thought you fancied men more than women. All those old studs and young cowboys need to warm themselves on the range somehow. You wouldn’t be the first cowboy to develop a preference.”
The edge of Riot’s lip quirked. “Is there a wager going?”
“I’ve lost a whole dollar,” she admitted.
“What do the Knights of Chastity fellows try when they come in? So I know what to watch for.”
“They mainly want dirt on this place. Not like it’s hard to find.” She tossed back her whiskey, then tapped the bar for another shot.
“Why are you here?” Riot asked. “There are tamer brothels in town. Ones where you’d have more control.”
“Then I’d have to put up with a madam.” She made a disgusted noise. “Lording it over like she owns me.”
“Why don’t you run your own brothel?”
“Too much commitment for me, too much headache, and too much overhead. Bribing police, dealing with local gangs, and all the petty squabbles that come up between the girls. I don’t get on with other women,” she admitted. “This place suits me. Gets right to the point. I don’t have to entertain and giggle. So here I am.” She spread her arms wide and gave a wiggle that sent her breasts bouncing.
Riot was only a man. It was hard not to admire her. “And there’s an impressive amount of you, Miss Small,” he noted. “So it’s all happiness here?”
“I wouldn’t call it happiness, but then what job is? It’s better than spending all day up to your elbows scrubbing laundry in a vat of lye. Then being forced to get on your knees for the overseer to keep a shitty job.”
A common story, Riot knew. A good many women in the profession got there by being a laundry attendant or factory worker first. With grueling hours and low wages, an overseer could make their life a little easier in exchange for sexual favors, and just outright fire them if they didn’t oblige. Many women naturally migrated into a brothel, reasoning that they might as well get paid for it.
He’d once tracked down a woman who’d shoved her overseer into a vat of boiling water. Only Riot figured she’d done the world a favor, and told her he’d be back in the morning to arrest her. She’d slipped away in the night. Imagine that.
“Miss Joe and Miss Rose sure got into it the other day,” he said.
“You handled that well.” She sized him up. “Now if I had a watchman like you in a brothel I owned, I’d sit back and let you do all the work.” She gave him a wink. The innuendo wasn’t lost on him. “It’s a pecking order. We’re not in a house. We’re competitors here. Then there're the watchmen to deal with.”
“Do they take extra off the top, or demand favors?”
“Both. Depends who. Only not you, apparently. We’re all still waiting for you to climb on top of one of us. There’s even a line now.”
“They’ll have to get past my lady first,” he said. “Have you talked with the owners about the watchmen?”
“As long as they get their rent, they don’t care what goes on here. It’s a wonder they even pay for watchmen at all.”
There were bells inside the rooms and secret locking mechanisms for safety, but there were a lot of rooms to cover. Watchmen were an expense.
“Every girl learns how to deal,” she said. “As long as I slip the guards a little something, be it favors or cash, they’ll come when I need them.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Most watchmen have selective hearing. It’s what makes you so rare. It also makes you stand out.”
Dollie Small didn’t strike Riot as the type to call for a watchman. The way she carried herself, the way she looked him straight in the eye and didn’t back do
wn. This was the type of woman who’d push a man into a vat of boiling water before asking for help.
A man interrupted their conversation by slapping Dollie’s backside. Riot tensed to shove the man back, but Dollie gave a slight shake of her head, then turned to embrace the interloper. She was all smiles and twinkling eyes.
Dollie nodded to Riot that all was well, so he moved on, away from the saloon and its cheery piano, dancing feet, and hoots of laughter.
Isobel finished polishing a knob, then glanced up at an empty corridor. The Noble sisters had gone on an outing, which only left Mrs. Noble and the rest of the servants at home.
She tried the door, and when it didn’t turn, crouched to study the lock. It was a simple lever lock like most in the house. Isobel reached under her dress hem, and pulled out two lock picking wrenches she’d stowed in the seam—one to raise the interior lever, and the other to move the deadbolt. Being one of the most basic locks, the door quickly opened.
Isobel slipped inside with her cleaning bucket. Lurking around in the dark would be suspicious, so she switched on the electric lights. Fine furniture, no frills, this had been Dominic Noble’s room. His mother had been too distraught to deal with his things, so she’d ordered the door locked.
There was something personal about Dominic’s murder. Something that made her think there were answers here—only she had no idea what those might be. His murder didn’t strike her as a robbery, or even something the woman in the room could have managed unless he’d been drunk out of his mind. And then there was the carpenter’s pencil. Who carried a thick pencil like that, aside from the obvious answer?
She went over to a desk, popped the lock and rifled through the contents. Receipts, correspondence, a day planner. Luncheons, dinner parties, rowing practices, Knights of Chastity events, and at least once a week an outing with Katherine Hayes. How romantic that Dominic wrote their walks in his daily planner lest he forget.
She turned to his account books.
Nothing leapt out at her. No regular payments to an unknown source. There were certainly large payments, but they were all accounted for with notations: jewelry, club dues, clothing.
She’d have to ask Katherine about the jewelry. There was an awful lot of it. Her mind leapt to Lotario—his jewelry collection was extensive. All had been gifts from clients. She’d check with Lotario, too.
Isobel replaced the journal, then turned to study the room. It looked lived in—cherished, even. A photograph of Katherine sat on his bedside table, while a photograph of himself with his three sisters sat on the mantel. It wasn’t a proper photograph from a studio, but an informal one with the girls standing behind Dominic on a rock in a perfect line, their heads one atop the other, all silly faced.
The evil trinity looked almost human.
Isobel carefully extracted this photograph from the frame to check the back. Nothing except their names and a date. It’d been taken the previous year. Next, she slid Katherine’s photograph from the frame and was rewarded with a shock—a parlor house postcard of a Venetian-style masked man wearing a bodice and garters. His face was partially covered, but she recognized the lithe build and bone structure. She saw it in the mirror every day. It was her twin, as Paris, in a provocative pose and a state of arousal. Say one thing for her twin, he looked absolutely stunning in a bodice and garters.
Isobel flipped over the card. To finding each other. And the freedom to live. Her twin had different writing styles for each persona, and Isobel knew them all. This wasn’t one of them. Then who? Another lover?
Isobel tucked the parlor card into her bodice, and turned to the mantel, feeling under and around edges for any secret compartments. Nothing. She turned to the paintings on the wall. Bright and colorful, at first glance they appeared cheerful, but each drew her closer, holding her attention. A tilt of red lips made a woman look mournful. A shadow in the eyes of a man changed his countenance from handsome to sinister. An odd, but compelling collection.
What was she expecting to find here? A list of his enemies? Blackmailers? Plans to burn down the Hotel Nymphia to prove his loyalty to the Knights of Chastity?
A noise snapped her out of consideration. Key against lock. Isobel muttered an oath, and cast around for escape, but a maid climbing out of a second-story window was bound to attract notice in the middle of the day. And her cleaning bucket was on the floor.
Moving swiftly, she threw aside the curtains, and turned to the bed just as the door opened.
“What are you doing in here, girl?”
It was Abigail, one of the older maids, who had a tongue as sharp as the sisters and was a favorite of Mrs. Noble.
Isobel bobbed a curtsy, while she fidgeted with her feather duster. “I was airing out the room, Miss Abigail,” she said with her eyes on the floor.
“Speak up!” Abigail snapped. The maid marched across the room, inspecting it with a keen eye. When she was satisfied everything was as it should be, she turned on Isobel.
“Cleaning this room is my job, girl.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I thought I’d help.”
“How d’you get in here?”
“The door was unlocked, ma’am.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Isobel thought the older woman would strike her, but Abigail’s face softened instead. “You’re a hard worker, Miss Rachel. I appreciate that. You can help me in here for today, but you’re not to come in again. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Isobel’s sigh of relief wasn’t feigned. She got to work, turning out bedding, dusting corners and wall paneling, and polishing surfaces that would never be touched by the room’s occupant again.
“Ma’am,” Isobel eventually whispered.
“Hmm?” Abigail looked up from where she was changing a vase of flowers. It was the easiest job, but Isobel didn’t hold it against the woman. She’d likely give the harder tasks to a young maid too. Only a week in and her back ached.
“Did the young Mr. Noble die in this bed like they say?”
Abigail frowned. “It’s none of your business.”
“It’s only the room feels cold. Don’t it?”
“Not uncommon in houses like these. People are born and die in the same bed, and are buried in the family graveyard on the same property.”
“Was Mr. Noble a nice gentleman?”
“As good as they come. Doted on his sisters, he did. And they him.” Abigail frowned at a flower in her hand. “So strange.” It was a faint whisper.
“What’s that, ma’am?” Isobel asked.
“You get back to work and keep your mind where it should be,” Abigail snapped.
And that was that. If Isobel pressed the woman for answers, it would be the end of Rachel Wall.
40
Nightwork
A bell rang down the hallway, and Riot sprinted towards the clanging noise. He pushed open a door and walked straight into a client choking the woman of the room. A large, hairy man smelling of cheap whiskey had her against a wall, choking her from behind as he went at her.
Without preamble, Riot drove his fist into the man’s kidney.
It got the hairy man’s attention. He abandoned the woman, spinning with a raised fist. Riot ducked under the wild swing and skipped back. The man made to charge, only he tripped on the trousers around his knees and fell flat on his face.
Riot grabbed the man by vest and collar, and hoisted him up and through the door to ram his head into a hallway wall. The hairy man went down in a heap.
Miss Sadie stepped out, spitting curses, as she threw the client’s hat and coat down the hallway. Then she rifled through his billfold, taking what she pleased.
Riot pretended not to notice. “I’ll get him out of here, ma’am.”
For the second time that night Riot hauled a furious drunk out of the Nymphia. He pushed the man right into the hands of a patrolman stationed out front.
That was the kicker about this establishment. The police knew what it was. They raided it occasiona
lly, and even posted guards at its gates, but officers didn’t stop the tide of men streaming into the hotel. They came by the busload from ports.
Riot paused outside to massage his knuckles and take a breath of fresh air. The night was crisp with fog and the chill went straight to his bones, but it cleared his head. Of smoke. Of the smell of unwashed men and their lust, of misery and memories.
Riot pushed off the gate and went back inside to check on Miss Sadie. He knocked, and the door opened a crack. “I suppose you want something in return. Come in, then.”
“I came to see if you were all right, ma’am.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Are any of us?”
“Point taken. I’ll leave you to it.”
She seemed to deflate. “Thank you, Mr. Kyd.” He started to leave, but she thrust out a dollar. “For your help.”
“I’m only doing my job.”
“So let me get this straight. You don’t want carnal favors and you don’t want cash. What are you, some kind of knight protector of fallen women?”
Most prostitutes did not want rescuing. They were rescuing themselves by working for themselves, as they saw it. They’d get out of the business as soon as they saved enough cash. Most of the women had a dream they were working towards—a house with a white fence, their own saloon or a brothel, a grocery service, or just feeding their children.
“I do want something,” he admitted. “Information.”
She pursed her lips, waiting.
“What do you know about the man who died on the third floor?”
“You a bull?”
“No, ma’am.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. Angry bruises were already blossoming on her throat and chest. “I don’t like owing anything, so I’ll tell you what I know—I know the watchman on the third level will take money for anything.”
“Earl Becker?”
She shook her head. “Earl is one watchman. Billy Blackburn is the other. A man wants to be a brute? Billy will look the other way for the right price. Two men want to go at it? Billy don’t care.”
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