Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Far as I can tell, he got along with everyone at the rowing club,” Matthew said. “Freddie Starling, Imogen Noble’s fiancé is a member, too. He cleaned out Dominic’s locker for the family. The club members are devastated. Dominic was one of their top competitors in rowing and swimming. And they all think he was found at home.

  “I also found out the Twinkling Star Improvement Company is trying to get permits to renovate and attach an adjacent building. The front of it would be off Stockton. There’s a basement they’re keen to excavate for more rooms. They want to enlarge the cow-yard so it can hold a thousand prostitutes, but the city won’t grant them permits.”

  Riot stopped shuffling, his knuckles going white.

  “There’s hope for this city yet,” Tim said around his pipe.

  “Father Caraher and the Knights of Chastity are putting up a fight. They’ve rallied every priest and preacher in the city and beyond to put pressure on city officials.”

  Riot watched Lotario out of the corner of his eye. He had fallen silent at the mention of permits, and was looking pale. Construction. So far that was the only thing connecting a carpenter’s pencil to the scene of the crime.

  “So this Dominic is the son of a family trying to shut Valentine and Emil’s cash cow down. Maybe he went to the Nymphia to negotiate some sort of deal, or friends of his from the rowing club lured him there to send a message to his mother and the Knights of Chastity,” Tim mused.

  “Was the body moved?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes. But I’m not sure how far,” Riot admitted. “The blood was pooled on his back. Before he got stiff, someone turned him over to make it look like he was sleeping, then one of the watchmen, Earl, found him and turned him onto his back again, so he’d be found by someone else. The other watchman on duty, a Billy Blackburn, took off the night of the murder. I was told he haunts a blind pig by the name of the Laughing Mule. He’s big on cockfighting, but he wasn’t there when I stopped by. Of course, I’ve been working most nights.”

  “I can help with that,” Garrett said. “Finding people is a specialty of mine.”

  “I’d appreciate your help.”

  “I thought you only wanted to involve yourself in respectable office work?” Lotario asked.

  Garrett flashed his teeth. “It turns out sitting around on my arse answering telephones all day doesn’t suit me.”

  “I hired you for your charming voice,” Lotario said.

  “Cockfights suit me better.”

  “I’m all too aware, Garrett.”

  Garrett placed a hand over his heart. “Two drinks. One bet. That’s it. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  “Per saloon?”

  “Let’s hope I find this fellow at the first.”

  “Are you a gambler, Mr. Garrett?” Riot asked, interrupting the pair.

  “Well, now that sounds professional, Mr. Riot. I assure you I’m no professional, but I do enjoy the occasional thrill.”

  Lotario rolled his eyes away from Garrett to settle on Matthew. “Keep on the rowing club. If you get a job offer for the Twinkling Star Improvement Company, take it. There may be nothing there, but at the very least you could try to get them to change their dreadful name.”

  48

  A Shot in the Dark

  “I hate this awful black.” Helen plucked at the ribbon on her arm. “I hate this fog. I hate this cold.”

  “I’d say it’ll pass, but it is San Francisco,” Sarah said in sympathy. “I miss a real summer. And a real spring… Well, just seasons in general.”

  “And snow at Christmas time,” Helen said dreamily.

  “That, too. Here, it’s just… dreary,” Sarah said. “Have you been to Sausalito? It feels like a whole different continent.”

  “Dominic took me there last year on the ferry, then we rode the Muir Woods railway.” Helen’s eyes dimmed, and Sarah put a comforting arm around the girl as they walked along Stow Lake, breath misting from their lips.

  The thing about San Francisco’s cold was that it was wet. It was the sort of cold that cut through cloth and went straight to bone. No insulation in the world could guard against it—at least none that Sarah could find.

  “I always wondered what it would be like to have a brother,” Sarah said. “My uncle was the closest person I had to one, and he turned out to be a scoundrel.”

  “Oh, Dom was impossible,” Helen said. “He teased, and we argued, and yet… I only ever laughed when he was about. It was all good-natured. We can’t do that sort of thing with father.”

  “Freddie seems good-natured, too,” Sarah said.

  “He’s splendid. Though Dominic would never have let us wander off alone like this. He was always so protective.”

  Freddie Starling had offered to take the girls on a picnic to Golden Gate Park. Mrs. Noble had reluctantly agreed, with promises that he’d protect their virtue and not allow any obscene behavior like bicycling. He’d crossed his heart and kissed Mrs. Noble’s cheek, and sworn on his future grave that he’d watch them as keen as an eagle. But the moment they arrived, Freddie had handed the girls five dollars and told them to go have some fun. Then Imogen grabbed his hand, and the couple ran off with the picnic basket and blanket.

  Sarah had no idea where Faith had gone, but she wasn’t worried. She and Jin wandered the city all the time—their parents weren’t concerned about Golden Gate Park. Then again, they did give her a pistol to carry around in her handbag.

  “Your mother is a little too protective,” Sarah said dryly.

  Helen made a sound of disgust and threw a piece of bread at a honking goose. “She never lets us do anything. If it wasn’t for Freddie sneaking us out like this, I’d go mad.”

  “Does he always leave you?”

  “He and Imogen like to be alone,” Helen confided, with a roll of her eyes. “And he says we’re too cooped up, which is the utter truth. Thank goodness for Freddie.”

  “What would your mother do if she found out?”

  Helen’s eyes widened, and she grabbed Sarah’s arm. “Please don’t tell her.”

  “I won’t. My sister and I come here alone all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “We just have to be back before dark.”

  “Can I come live with you?”

  “My family is…” Sarah hesitated. How to explain? “A little odd.”

  “Mrs. Amsel, your grandmother, seems just like my mother.”

  “Not as strict.” Before Helen started asking after Sarah’s mother and father, she changed the subject. “Would Freddie get in trouble if your mother found out?”

  Helen seethed. “No. Mother would blame us. Freddie bought me a bicycle a few months ago, and I got in trouble because I accepted his gift.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Mother says a lady is morally responsible for her own virtue.”

  Sarah shivered against the cold, pulling her coat closer.

  “Are you all right?” Helen asked.

  “Yes… it’s nothing.”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Sarah hesitated. “I just remembered a bad situation I was in at my uncle’s. Two men came to visit…” She didn’t want to talk about those desperate minutes. The oil in the men’s voices, the look in their eyes, her harried flight up the stairs and her frantic attempt to escape. “It’s hard when bad things happen in your own house. I’m sorry you had to find Dominic there. It must be hard.”

  Helen leaned in close before whispering, “But he didn’t die in our house.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. I overheard Imogen and mother talking. Dom died in the Hotel Nymphia.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the horrid place half the city is trying to shut down.”

  “How?”

  “He was choked to death. You mustn’t tell anyone.”

  Sarah hesitated.

  “Swear it.”

  Sarah couldn’t swear. She had to tell Isobel. “That
’s terrible,” she said instead. “Who killed him?”

  “Mother said a prostitute, but…”

  Sarah waited.

  “I heard him arguing with father the day before he was killed. They were furious with each other. Father’s shouting shook the plaster from the walls.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  Helen sighed. “A maid. Faith and I chased away another one. We were cruel to her, and I think Dom was angry that father didn’t punish us. Dom never liked us playing tricks on the maids.” Helen hugged Sarah’s arm to her. “I think it’s all my fault that Dom went to that disgusting hotel.”

  “How could that possibly be?” Sarah asked.

  “Dom probably defended us, and father drove him out. Of course he had to go to a hotel,” Helen said, with tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “He could’ve gone to a nicer one,” Sarah pointed out.

  “But… it forced a confrontation. You know how that goes with family. One little thing comes out, then another, and the next thing you know Faith and I are screeching on the floor trying to kick each other.”

  “Did your father really tell him to leave?”

  Helen sniffled. “The last thing I heard father say was, ‘It will be the death of you.’”

  “Did you get on with the last maid?” Isobel asked as she changed the bedding in Dominic’s room. Despite his death, Mrs. Noble had the room cleaned daily as if nothing had happened and her only son would return any day now.

  “What was that?” Abigail asked. She was sitting in an armchair rubbing her stockinged feet while Isobel did the cleaning.

  “The maid before me.” Isobel gave the older woman a smile. “Did you get on with her?”

  Abigail sighed. “She was a hard worker.”

  “It must be difficult… having a new girl so often.”

  “I won’t deny it. Some I’m glad to see go. Others not so much.”

  “Any advice for staying in the Noble’s employ?”

  Abigail frowned. “Mrs. Noble values chastity, girl. You keep your legs closed, don’t pay no mind to the sisters, and you’ll be just fine.”

  “You mean the sisters didn’t chase the last maid away?”

  “The last one, sure. She didn't last longer than a few months. But the one before… she was a loose sort. But what do you expect of one of those orientals? I warned Mrs. Noble not to hire some oriental girl that can’t speak English.”

  “Oriental?” Isobel asked sharply.

  “That’s right. Mrs. Noble thought someone who couldn’t speak English would fare better with her girls.”

  Isobel pinned the woman with a stare. “Did the oriental maid get along with the sisters?”

  Abigail blinked, surprised by the sudden change in the mousy maid. “Why, yes. She was a hard worker, and the girls were kinder to her… intrigued by her. Even picked up some Japanese. She lasted over a year, but then she went and got herself with child.”

  49

  The Clinic

  “Kyd!”

  Riot nearly missed the call. The Nymphia was packed—a combination of ships steaming into port and a recent boxing match. Hoots of laughter mingled with music and the din of conversation, along with impromptu hallway games and bouts of drunken singing.

  He heard his name again, so he stepped up onto his watchman’s stool to get a better view of the crowded hallway.

  “Kyd!” He caught sight of Dollie Small, who was taller than most men, her blonde hair blazing in the electric light. She looked worried.

  Riot stepped down and slipped through the tide of guests. She grabbed his arm and shouted in his ear. “There’s a group in front of one of the rooms downstairs. I think the gal inside drank herself to oblivion. Happens ’bout once a month. Usually the girls and I can break up the mob and lure them away, but they’re all drunk as piss, and hootin’ and hollerin’ somethin’ fierce, with the half of ’em at full mast. There’s too many for us gals to handle.”

  “What about the watchmen on that floor?” Riot asked as they fought their way downstairs.

  “Worthless sons of bitches said they ain’t heard no bell, so it’s business as usual.”

  Riot pushed his way through the crowds to the other wing of the hotel. The watchman for the hallway had his feet up, chatting up a woman and ignoring the large group congregated in front of a door farther down. A few women stuck their heads into the hallway, eyes worried, faces grim.

  Dollie spat on the floor beside the watchman. “Yellow-bellied bastard.” Then pulled Riot into an open room.

  “They’re too riled up, Dollie,” the occupant said. “Corned up to a frenzy and going at it like a coop full of roosters on a hen.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Dollie said, shoving open the room’s secret door.

  Riot followed, unhooking a billy club from his belt. He’d prefer his revolver, but weapons weren’t allowed on the premises. That rule included the watchmen, since they were just as prone to getting rowdy as the clients. But it didn’t stop Riot from keeping a Storekeeper tucked in a holster at the small of his back.

  Dollie stopped in front of the room’s back door to cinch her robe. He vaguely wondered where she’d acquired the garment.

  “With you here, maybe I can talk them down,” Dollie said.

  Riot met her eyes, but before she could charge in first, he slipped past and entered the room.

  It was the woman who’d been dropped off by her pimp, Odd Stick. Face down on the bed, unconscious or dying, and covered in bodily fluids. Two young men were busy adding to those fluids, while a third was having his way with her. A crowd at the door hooted encouragement while waiting their turn.

  Riot had no intention of talking. He slammed his billy club against a man’s lower back, then twirled it and caught a second under the jaw. He grabbed the third by the hair and dragged him off the woman, raising his billy club to strike. Riot nearly brought it down on the man’s skull, but diverted his blow at the last. His club cracked a shoulder instead.

  A few from the crowd rushed forward, and Riot spun to meet the drunken mob. A boot connected with the back of his knee. He staggered, nearly falling. Then arms latched around his neck.

  The man he’d hit first hadn’t gone down. They must be drunk as piss and numb to blows.

  Riot bent the man’s fingers back at a cracking angle, as another bum-rushed him from the front. He slammed against a wall, the man on his back colliding with a hat hook.

  The man howled.

  Riot drove the second man’s head down as he brought up a knee. Bone crunched, and blood gushed from the man’s bent nose.

  In the free-for-all, he was aware of Dollie in the room, standing in front of the bed, guarding its occupant. She’d run one man’s head through a wall, but another was closing in on her.

  Before Riot could shout a warning, Dollie snatched up a chamber pot and used her superior height to upend it onto the advancing man’s head. He recoiled, screaming and clawing at the helmet of filth.

  Dollie rushed forward to shove the filth-covered man into the crowd. The fight went right out of the mob. They dispersed, some shouting, others cursing, and a good number laughing like it was all a game.

  Riot beat down the last two until they collapsed in the hallway. Then Dollie slammed the door shut and locked it.

  “I like your way of talking,” Dollie panted.

  Riot worked his jaw, grimacing as it popped. It had only just healed.

  Dollie checked the girl for a pulse, then picked a bottle from the floor and sniffed at the contents. “Laudanum,” she said in disgust.

  “Her pimp gave her something else, too.”

  Dollie cursed as she used a sheet to wipe filth off the woman.

  “Is there somewhere we can take her?” Riot asked.

  “There is.” Dollie stuck her head into the back hallway. “Someone get me a damn blanket!”

  One was brought. Riot bundled up the semi-unconscious woman, scooped her up, and followed Dollie down th
e back hallways. Women watched them pass. Some muttered a curse, others looked on with eyes of flint, but most simply turned away. Life was harsh. Many of the women had been there; everyone expected to be one day.

  To his surprise, Dollie led him to the manager’s office. Kane was sitting in his chair, a woman on his lap and a cigar between his lips.

  Claude lounged in the corner, reading a newspaper.

  “Kane, the men ganged up on this gal. I need to take her to the boarding house clinic.”

  Kane pushed the woman on his lap aside so he could see what was going on. “Don’t bring that filthy whore into my office, Kyd.”

  Claude leapt to his feet, and Riot stopped at the doorway.

  “She don’t look injured.”

  “She’s unconscious,” Dollie explained.

  Claude came closer to lift an eyelid. “Looks drugged to me. It’s Odd Stick’s girl.”

  Kane cursed. “He wants her working. I can’t waste space in the clinic on a whore that won’t pay me back. Put her back upstairs, Kyd. Plant yourself outside her door, and make sure the johns pay first.”

  Riot shifted his stance, relaxing. A cool calm ran through his veins that put the world into sharp focus. He was aware of every twitch, flicker of lash, and shift of weight. Claude seemed to move in slow motion.

  Sensing his shift, Dollie put a hand on Riot’s arm. “This hotel is supposed to have standards, Kane. You want this joint to be another sick dive in the Barbary Coast with limp women covered in their own filth? Are you really gonna let the likes of Odd Stick push you around?” she challenged.

  Kane chewed on his cigar, running a hand up the woman’s arm in his lap. “Claude, unlock the passage.”

  Riot followed Claude into the locker room. The big man took out a key to unlock one locker, then reached inside and did something that caused a click. A thick door of lockers swung open.

  Of course there’d be escape tunnels in the hotel. Most brothels had at least one. Dim light shone from the passage beyond. Riot carried the woman down a flight of stairs, then followed Dollie down a tunnel. The door closed behind them.