Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  “Lars.”

  Monk’s expression grew cold. He grunted. “Hmph! You’d think he’s stirred up enough trouble for one day. What did he want this time?”

  “Aside from the pleasure of intimidating me?” In retrospect, his visit struck me as unnecessary. “He was warning me to stay away from Neva O’Dell. For some reason, he seems to have suddenly grown angrier about the incident at the morgue last night.”

  “He has? Hmm.” My uncle appeared distracted as he watched the crowd. A race was about to start, I realized, and people tense with anticipation pushed forward to the track rail. My uncle reacted as well, his head turning, watching, his gaze flicking in constant motion.

  “Yes. I don’t want to overreact, run scared where there’s no need, but Monk, he seemed ... oh ... vaguely threatening.” I touched my sore lip with my tongue. In fact, there was no vague about it.

  Monk tensed and his face went hard. “He did, did he? What did he do?”

  I waved this off with a flap of my hand. “Yes. What’s more, I just ran into Grat and Lars was with him. Lars was saying Neva’s horse is gone from the stable, and Neva herself has disappeared. You know him and his method of speaking double-talk on every subject, but I believe he was accusing us, or maybe just me, of stealing Mercury.”

  “Us? Steal Mercury?” He frowned at me. “You don’t say?”

  “I do say.”

  “I wonder why? Seems pretty far-fetched even for him.”

  I had his attention now, want it or not. I buried the bruised side of my face in Nimble’s fur.

  “Why he’d come up with that, I mean,” he explained. “You haven’t stolen the horse, have you, China?”

  “Uncle Monk!” Nimble wriggled as my voice rose.

  Monk had the grace to look abashed although, knowing him the way I do, I doubt he felt it. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I have no idea where the horse is.”

  Something in my inflection must have warned him. “But you know who took him, right?”

  I hesitated. “Let’s just say I know the horse isn’t stolen at all. Mercury was lamed in the fall that killed Robbie, and the owner has taken him away to protect his leg and give him time to heal. I believe the intention is to have the horse ready to run on Derby day.”

  “Duchene or Mrs. O’Dell have a change of heart?” He looked surprised. “Last I heard they were bound and determined on running him, lame or not.”

  “Oh, them,” I said as if they didn’t count. “Turns out neither Mrs. O’Dell nor her father actually owns the horse. Neva and Robbie did. Now Neva does.”

  He didn’t get the chance to ask how I came by this information, although a lifted brow warned of questions to come. Then a waving arm and a shout summoned him. One of the bookies bellowed at him to come verify the odds on his chalkboard to a customer.

  “Damn,” he said. “China—”

  The bookie shouted again. “Hustle it up. Race won’t last forever.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Monk hurried to say. “Meanwhile—”

  “Meanwhile?”

  He went so far as to chew on his mustache, a definite aberration by a man who took great care of his facial embellishment. “Meanwhile, lambie, be careful. These people ... they ain’t—” What he meant to say faded as he started toward the bookie’s stand.

  “You bet,” I said. I don’t know if he heard me.

  With Monk so busy, I felt my task complete. He hadn’t, thank goodness, noticed the damage to my face. Telling him details of my set-to with Lars could wait for a better time. Maybe, if I delayed long enough, I’d never have to tell him.

  With both Monk and Grat warned of Lars’s latest harassment, I found myself wanting to get home and talk more with Neva. I set Nimble down and we started toward the gate.

  What on earth was I going to do with the girl? With the way Lars was watching the office, I didn’t dare keep her with me.

  The crowd roared as a seven-horse field broke away from the starting line. Unable to resist the excited swell of noise, I turned to watch them race past. A palomino had broken first, but in the quick look I got at the field, I figured a small brown horse would soon take the lead—and keep it. Then Nimble, excited by all the noise and movement, tugged so hard on her leash she almost slipped her collar. I spared a moment’s gratitude for Mr. Poole’s admonition to keep her close.

  Poole ... Could he possibly be Robbie’s murderer? Not that I thought he was guilty of using his own two hands. He was a particularly sharp-spoken, obnoxious fellow, but was he also the man Neva had seen giving money to her grandfather? After spying him hobnobbing with Mrs. O’Dell—twice—well, it roused my suspicions.

  The trip back to the office from Corbin Park seemed endless. The streetcar, stopping often to pick up or drop off passengers, was crowded, loud, and smelly. I carried Nimble because the seats were full and I was afraid she’d be mashed like a potato. She didn’t appreciate my efforts. My wiggly little dog and I both were relieved when we got off and sped homeward.

  Besides, if Neva woke up, I imagined she’d be frightened at finding herself alone in a stranger’s house.

  I’ll admit my hurry made me careless, not paying much attention to my surroundings. Mind you, I had the foresight to watch for suspicious characters lurking in dark alleys and whatnot while traversing the streets. I’ve been accosted a time or two, and have no desire to be taken by surprise again. I keep an extra hat pin handy, just in case.

  But this time, if it hadn’t been for Nimble, I would’ve walked right into an ambush right on my own doorstep, figuratively speaking, and who knows what would’ve happened. Nothing good, I’m sure.

  But I did have Nimble, bless her heart.

  All appeared well as I unlocked the office, although Nimble scratched at the door in her anxiety to get inside. The sun had dropped behind the taller buildings to the west of us, darkening the room. I fumbled about as I pulled the chain to turn on the electric fixture in the middle of the ceiling. It buzzed softly as the bulb warmed. The odd buzz continued when the light reached maximum illumination. Call me slow off the mark, but that’s when I finally realized what I heard was Nimble growling, sort of gargling, really, low in her throat. She sounded a bit like a bumble bee. I studied her, my own apprehension growing. Her nose twitched, her eyes bugged, and the hackles on her back lifted like porcupine quills, curly hair notwithstanding. Her whippy tail stuck straight out behind her.

  Appearances can be deceptive. All was not well.

  Sometimes this detective business is for the birds.

  My first hopeful thought was of Neva, thinking she’d come downstairs and had startled the dog. On second thought, I knew if Nimble had caught the girl’s scent, she’d be bouncing around happy as a spring lamb. My third thought, also concerning Neva, had me in a bit of a panic. Head cocked, I listened hard. Sweat sprang out on my body.

  And yet ... nothing. Too much nothing?

  Was Nimble, by some odd chance, still reacting to our set-to this morning with Lars?

  Unlikely.

  My gaze flicked around the room before coming back to Nimble. She was staring fixedly into the hallway opening off the office. A foyer at the back door led into this area, along with the entry to a storage room. And the stairway up to the second-floor apartment.

  Next, the four or five papers scattered over the top of my desk clamored for attention. I’d typed them earlier and put them in a basket, lined up in precise order, a couple to await Monk’s signature, the others Gratton’s.

  My heart pounded. For the second time in one day, I opened the desk drawer and retrieved the S & W .32 revolver. Muffling the sound in the folds of my skirt, I cocked it.

  Nimble beside me, we moved as quietly as possible toward the darkened hall. Why, I don’t know. The dog’s toenails clicked on the wood floor. I might as well have stomped as the light glared down from overhead, my every move visible. Each step I took was obvious. And I felt eyes watching me. Whose eyes?
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br />   I stopped before I reached the doorway.

  “Come out.” My voice shook, though only a little. I made a determined effort to hold it steady. “I know you’re there.”

  Nimble growled again, tugging at the leash still looped over my wrist.

  I wanted, in the worst way, to run for safety. Seek out Cosimo Pinelli, my cabinetmaker friend next door, and ask him for protection. But I couldn’t take the chance. I couldn’t abandon Neva—if she was still asleep upstairs. If she was even still alive.

  “Come out,” I said again after a few seconds. And then found myself regretting the demand as feet shuffled. Nimble lunged toward the sound and I, in a moment of cowardice, detached the loop from my wrist and let her go.

  Quick as a hornet, she dashed into the hall. Fierce growls rang out, accompanied by the sound of ripping cloth. A sharp wail from the dog, then a curse delivered in a man’s voice. More barks. More growls. More curses.

  I took the opportunity to advance, the pistol held in both hands in front of me. Rounding the corner, I spied a tussle of heroic proportions.

  Nimble, with her leash dragging loose behind her, had managed to entangle a slightly built man in the strap. She’d wrapped the leash a couple times around one of his ankles, then changed sides and done the other, effectively hobbling him. He was barely able to move his feet. He’d grabbed hold of an umbrella I left hanging from one of the coat hooks near the door. Bobbing up and down like an egg in a pot of boiling water, he poked the pointed ferrule at the dog every time she gnashed at him with her teeth. She dodged the umbrella easily, until it flopped open and scared her. She yelped like she’d been wounded.

  I pointed my pistol at the man. “Stand down, sir,” I said, “and drop the umbrella.”

  “Call off your blankety-blank dog,” he replied, ignoring the pistol and jabbing at Nimble with a vicious expression on his face. Only he didn’t, of course, say blankety-blank.

  He had no weapon I could see, just the umbrella waving about. I released the .32’s hammer and stuck the pistol in my pocket. Nimble and the man continued to wrangle until I grabbed up the broom I used to sweep the back stoop. With a swing in the fashion of the Northsider baseball nine’s best batter—who just so happens to be Gratton Doyle—I slammed a home run and disarmed the fellow. Then, having gained some experience in such things, I crammed the broom handle between his legs and tripped him.

  The broom may have slipped upward a little—maybe it even slipped twice. When he got his breath back, the cursing resumed. This time directed at me.

  But not before I heard a rustle at the top of the stairs. I glanced up as Neva came out on the landing, no doubt drawn by all the shouting and barking. She took one look at the man, turned dead white, and disappeared into the apartment.

  So she was not coming to my aid. Why not?

  I eyed the man now sitting, rather gingerly, on the floor in front of me, his back to the stair. Busy fending off Nimble’s teeth, he hadn’t seen the girl. And I thought I knew why she was keeping out of sight.

  I didn’t blame her. In fact, I was glad. She didn’t need to be a part of what happened next.

  15

  “Get ’im off me,” the man yelled, snatching his ear away from Nimble’s snapping teeth in time to avoid a bite. “Effing sonsa—”

  I whomped him good on his shoulder with the broom handle, narrowly missing the dog. Which was all right. It gave me a couple seconds to catch her as she shied away. I released the leash from her collar, still leaving the man entangled in the strap, and dragged her to my side.

  “Shut up,” I told the man, and gave Nimble a little shake. “You, too.”

  The dog did better than the human in obeying me. Surprising in itself since the back door was agape inviting her escape. More so when I told her, “Upstairs,” and she actually went.

  “Now,” I said and, interrupting my captive’s fresh tirade, took out the pistol again. “You may loosen your legs and come into the office.”

  “I bet I can’t walk,” he complained. “You damn near ruined me.”

  “But I haven’t killed you,” I pointed out. “Yet. Even though I would be perfectly justified in shooting an intruder. A thief. A possible murderer. A molester.” This last came out in a harsh whisper.

  His eyes rounded. “Say, I ain’t ...”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Do you think I can’t see the pry marks on the door?” Monk was sure to be upset when he got home. The door had been replaced only a few months ago after a crazed murderer took an ax to it. “The office. Go.”

  I don’t know what the intruder read in my expression, but at least his infernal yappity-yap complaints broke off. He struggled to his feet, making a theatrical production of rising. I helped him toddle into the office via a couple quick nudges of my pistol. Maintaining a discreet distance between us in case he thought going for my gun seemed the prudent thing to do.

  Once released from the gloom of the semi-dark hall, I found time to examine my catch. I already knew he was small in stature. As I’d begun to suspect, I also found him to be at least as old as Uncle Monk. More decrepit in his movement, although I might be blamed for some of his trouble walking. And if so, I didn’t care.

  He wore run-over-at-the-heel boots, dungarees, and a faded green calico shirt. An old felt hat with a sagging brim had covered his head when I first spotted him. At some point during the melee, it had fallen off. He was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, his hair in the process of turning white.

  I scooted a chair into the middle of the room with my foot.

  “Sit,” I told him.

  Glaring at me, he complied, careful as to how he positioned his backside.

  “Who are you?” I waggled the pistol at him, making certain I had his attention. “And why have you broken into the Doyle & Howe Detective Agency?”

  He told me to do something I thought was probably anatomically impossible—as well as extremely rude.

  “Two questions at one time too much for you?” I paced a slow circle until I stood behind him, out of his sight no matter how far he twisted his neck. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  He ignored me.

  No particular surprise. I poked the .32’s barrel into the back of his neck and shoved.

  Hard.

  He winced and grumbled something meant, I’m sure, to be menacing. It failed to impress.

  A second poke became necessary. “Your name, sir?”

  “Duchene. Louis Duchene.”

  I can’t say as I was surprised. Neva’s grandfather, just as I’d suspected. And my, how he resented giving in to me. When I walked around in front of him again, hate seemed to shoot from his eyes. I’d known he needlessly used violent means against his granddaughter. Now I wondered if he were touched in the head.

  While I pondered this question, footsteps sounded on the boardwalk outside. I looked up as a man shuffled past the windows. Then another. My captive’s mouth opened and he sucked in a breath as though to call out.

  “Don’t you dare.” I shook my head and waved the gun. His mouth closed.

  A curious passerby had only to look in and he’d see me with my pistol aimed at Mr. Duchene. Not a good idea, in case I had to shoot the old rapscallion. Witnesses were not part of my plan. And yet, I worried about this witness business working two ways. If no one could see what I did to Duchene, they couldn’t see what he’d do to me if he got a chance.

  Resolve hardened in me. I’d just have to see he never got the opportunity, that’s all.

  Without ever taking my eyes off him, I went around the windows, pulled the shades and locked the door.

  “What’re you doin’?” He eyed my precautionary arrangements, sounding the tiniest bit nervous. I was nervous, too.

  “I’m making certain we don’t have any interruptions. You know, during our little ... talk.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to you.” His words came out tough, but he eyed the gun in my hand with a certain amount of trepidation. Very wise of him.
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  “Indeed? We’ll see.”

  I walked around behind him and poked the nape of his neck again. It could’ve used a good wash, by the way. Dirt was ingrained in the wrinkles. And he smelled. Manure, cheap tobacco with an overlay of cheaper booze, and stale sweat. In fact, sweat beaded his face now. Whatever kind of man he was, at least he didn’t discount a woman just because she was a woman. His wariness indicated he knew a female of the species could be as lethal as the male.

  Monk’s saddle, a leftover of his stock inspector days, lay in a corner of the office. He’d returned from a trip up north to a Stevens County ranch just before he and Gratton contracted with the racing commission, and he hadn’t had time to put it away. I’d been complaining, but now I considered it fortuitous. His lasso was tied onto the saddle skirt with a thong. Just what I needed.

  Since Monk used a quick-release knot to hold the rope in place, I had it loose in a couple seconds. Before Duchene could sense what I had in mind, with a flip of my hand I slipped the loop over his head and settled it around his neck.

  “What the—” At the rope’s first touch he made as though to leap from his seat.

  A sharp jerk brought him back down on the chair, writhing like a fish on a line. Holding the rope snug, I jumped forward and tapped him a couple times on the temple with the pistol barrel. He must’ve had fragile skin, maybe because of all the weathering. Blood trickled a fine line down his face.

  “Sit still.”

  He subsided. Oh, the taps may have hurt, all right, but I felt certain the wound looked worse than it really was. Probably.

  “You little bitch. When I get loose I’m gonna ...”

  Another jerk on the rope cut off his obnoxious line of discussion. Before he could gather himself—and he may, in all honesty, have been a wee bit dizzy from a lack of air—I put the pistol aside, though handy in case of need, and quickly wrapped the rope around his upper body, his arms held immobile. Yanked it tight. Checked to make certain that regardless of the sounds he made he wasn’t strangling, put my foot against the chair seat, and yanked even harder. Then, round and around I went; neck, torso, waist, legs and feet. I trussed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey.