Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  Oh, and I didn’t forget to thank my stars he was a small man. And verging on old. If he’d been in his prime, I’d probably never managed it. As it was, he fought me tooth and toenail, which is about all he had free.

  One problem. I wasn’t able to stopper his mouth. So I stuffed Mavis’s dusting cloth, retrieved from the under-the-stairs storage, in it.

  Spent, I went into the hall and sat on the lowest step leading to the apartment. I put my head on my knees and waited for my heartbeat to slow, my sweat to dry, and my trembling to still. What a day this had turned into!

  Before many minutes passed, a shuffle of bare feet alerted me to Neva pacing in the living room above me. Funny. Even the slight noise she made sounded frantic, poor girl. It wasn’t fair to leave her wondering what had happened. Thinking, shame on me, I went up.

  Her bruises had darkened as she slept, but even so she looked better than she had earlier. Not so haggard. Fourteen-year-old girls should never look haggard. There ought to be a law.

  “That’s my granddad down there,” she whispered to me.

  “Yes. I know. What’s he doing here, Neva?”

  Her voice shook. “Looking for me?”

  “Maybe. Possibly. But why? I don’t think he knows you’re here. Not really. He seemed to be searching for something else.”

  “Something else? What?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking you. But I know it can’t be the horse.” She winced as my voice sharpened. “Sorry. Not your fault.”

  Not quite true. I wouldn’t be involved if it weren’t for Neva and her pathetic plea. Sighing as I steered her into the kitchen and indicated a chair, I relented. “The papers on my desk are scattered about. He seemed to be rifling the hall closet when Nimble and I arrived. And he hadn’t headed upstairs. Yet. If he’d been looking for you, he would’ve gone there first thing. And,” I added dryly, “I don’t think he would’ve left you to get your sleep out if he’d suspected you were here.”

  I moved the coffeepot to the hotter part of the stove and shoved a stick of wood into the firebox. Neva needed something warm, and so did I after my labors.

  She chewed at her lip. “No.” She touched one of the bruises on her face. “He wouldn’t let me sleep.”

  “All of which tells me he’s after something else. What is it, Neva? What is he looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her voice had risen. From the office below, came the sound of chair legs chittering on the floor. Muffled, pig-like grunts rose in volume. Mr. Duchene trying to release himself, no doubt. Had he heard Neva and recognized her voice?

  Putting my forefinger to my lips, I shushed her. “Have you heard him mention anything about Doyle & Howe Detective Agency?”

  Her eyes fixed on the floor, she shook her head. “Just last night when he told my mother the man who paid them the money said to stay out of the detectives’ way. I heard Granddad say he told him to ’specially warn my mother after he saw her talking to Monk yesterday.”

  I seized on one minor tidbit. “He? He who?”

  Poole? Had to be. After all, hadn’t I seen him hobnobbing again with Mrs. O’Dell right after she talked to Monk today? The timing seemed to reinforce the warning.

  Still, something didn’t quite jibe, but whatever it was drifted out of my mind as Neva shook her head again and said, “I don’t know. Just ‘he.’ Miz Bo ... China, what are you going to do with my granddad?”

  The very question puzzling me. To give myself time, I poured us each a cup of rather stale coffee. Neva guzzled it down like a parched desert survivor. I had some oatmeal cookies with raisins in them. Likewise a little stale, but I fetched a handful from the jar, dumped them on a plate and set them in front of her.

  Absently, she took one. I wouldn’t have minded a nibble myself, but my mouth was still too sore.

  Neva, grown a little braver by now, looked up at me. “Are you going to have the police arrest Granddad? I know he deserves it.”

  “He deserves worse than a little jail time, the ornery old coot.” I thought a moment. Lars. He was mixed up in this somehow. In which case— “But I don’t think the police would serve any purpose.”

  Something, fear most probably, widened Neva’s dark eyes. “Are you going to turn him loose?” The question came out as a gasp.

  “I expect I’ll have to—eventually.” I didn’t like the thought any more than she did, judging by the way her fingers closed around the cookie, turning it to crumbs in her hand.

  Shaking the crumbs off, she jumped to her feet and glanced around.

  “What?” I blinked my eyes wide and gawked about, astonished by her sudden action. Nimble scrambled under the table, shuffing up the remains of Neva’s cookie with her little pink tongue.

  “My boots,” the girl said. “Where are my boots?”

  “The bedroom.” I gestured. “But why ... what ... I’m not letting him go this instant, Neva. Calm down.”

  “No. I have to go.” Face white, she headed for my room. “I can’t let him see me here. I have to hide. I have to—he’ll—”

  She verged on hysterical. “I won’t tell him. I won’t!”

  Bewildered, I followed her. “Tell him what?”

  “Mercury. I won’t tell him where I ... I won’t.”

  “Of course not.” I paused. “But where will you go?”

  I don’t think she was even aware of the tears leaking from her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” she said on a hiccupy sob. “I’ll find some place. Maybe with—” Then more firmly. “No. Not there. I don’t know.”

  A name and face leapt into my mind. On one hand, what I had was a Damsel in Distress. Over there, on the other hand, a mushy heart when it came to the helpless.

  “I do,” I said.

  16

  I doubt Porter Anderson’s name comes up very often in a discussion about the ideal guardian for a young girl, but there you are. On the spur of the moment, I couldn’t think of anyone more fitting for the role than he. I have personal experience with him as a rescuer, a protector, and a friend, so I may be prejudiced. If I am, I’m not the only one. His wife-to-be has also benefited from his inborn “Sir Galahad” trait. It’s what I was counting on. The only problem I could see would be in convincing him of his aptitude. I’d have to present Neva’s sad tale with a lot of heroic flash and dare.

  I didn’t want to place Porter in jeopardy, mind you, but he’s the sort of man who laughs at danger and is willing to take risks. He’s well able to take care of himself, of course, which makes his attitude understandable.

  Convincing Neva of Porter’s suitability, I soon discovered, saddled my plan with a problem.

  I finished detailing Porter’s stellar attributes, only to find Neva’s wide—truthfully, a little cow-like—eyes staring at me as though I’d gone mad. “But Miss Bo—China, I don’t know this man. Even if I did, I can’t do it. It’s not right. He might get hurt.” Then she dealt my argument what she no doubt supposed was the final blow. “It isn’t respectable!”

  I cocked my head. “You’re probably right. But what’s more important, Neva, respectability or safety? I know which I’d choose if I were in your place.”

  She blushed. “But Mrs. Ba ... this woman I know already thinks I’m a tramp. And my family. Mrs. B ... she doesn’t like my clothes. She says—”

  Neva was so upset she couldn’t even complete a full sentence.

  “Then we’ll need to keep this episode a secret. Porter is good at keeping secrets. You’ll see.”

  She kept saying no, while I kept saying yes.

  I brought forth several convincing arguments on why she should do as I said, even as I bustled around my bedroom gathering a few things I knew she’d need over the next few days. The girl had nothing. She’d escaped her granddad this morning without brush, comb or change of knickers.

  I put a couple dollars in the bundle I made up for her while she stood with her back to me, listening to her grandfather thump and snort in t
he office below. Her shoulders were so stiff it was a wonder the muscles didn’t break in two.

  “I know it sounds a bit far-fetched, Neva. And not quite the thing. But that’s why it’s precisely what you need to do. No one would ever expect to find you with Porter.” I handed her the neatly tied bundle, along with one of my old jackets. She’d come away in her shirtsleeves and I wondered if she even owned a coat. Well, she did now.

  She took the bundle I handed her and absently donned the jacket. “Maybe this man won’t want to help me.” She looked almost hopeful.

  “He’ll do it.” I knew my way around Porter Anderson. He was much more malleable than say, Gratton Doyle. One look at Neva’s blackened eyes and scraped wrists and he’d be won over. The only problem lay in discovering his whereabouts so we could do the handover.

  But first, I had to spirit Neva from the building without her grandfather being aware.

  I went down first. A good thing, too, as Mr. Duchene had managed to not only scoot the chair farther into the room, but turn it around until he faced the hall. Neva would’ve been visible from where he sat.

  “You’ve been busy.” I showed him the cloth—a tea cloth, actually—I’d brought downstairs with me and whipped it out in a flourish. “Won’t do you any good, though. You’re not going anywhere.”

  He mumbled something behind the gag in his mouth.

  “What’s this, you ask?” I dropped the cloth over his head and tucked the edges under the rope circling his neck. It all made a rather tight fit. He should’ve been saying thank you, since the rope was a bit scratchy. I’m quite certain those mutters meant something else, however. “This should help keep the light out of your eyes.”

  Everything I said seemed to infuriate him which, I have to say, didn’t bother me one whit. The chair rocked wildly as he threw his whole body back and forth. Being attached to the chair didn’t deter him, so it was no surprise when they toppled over with a resounding crash. I didn’t care.

  He groaned. Rather theatrical acting, in my opinion. His muffled complaints grew louder.

  I stifled a laugh.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” I told him. “I’ve got something I need to do, but when I get back, we’re going to have a talk.” I paused. “I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to it.” Leaving him where he lay, I went to get Neva.

  Neva’s mouth gaped open as she caught a glimpse of her grandfather lying on the floor trussed up like a hog-tied calf. She took a strangled breath.

  Holding a finger to my lips to indicate silence, I entered the room and turned off the light, hiding the old man from view. We left the building via the back door. I grabbed the girl’s hand and led her through Mr. Pinelli’s side of the yard into the back alley. We crossed behind the buildings backing onto ours, then cut around the sides until we reached the next street. In this roundabout fashion, we finally came to Beaver’s Family Hotel.

  Like nearly every other building in Spokane, the Beaver was only a few years old. After a fire during the summer of 1889 burned the entire downtown to the ground, people rebuilt using brick. The hotel, the simple, box-like two-story structure made of gray bricks, sat in the middle of a patch of green lawn.

  Porter always stayed here when he came to town, possibly because of the evening meal the small, friendly hotel offered as part of the room fee, sort of like an upscale boardinghouse. Besides, he’d told me, he liked the food. I was counting on his reluctance to change his habits. Besides, it was nearing supper time. He should be there now.

  Leaving Neva out of sight behind a large bush shedding copious amounts of frost-loosened leaves over the porch, I entered the hotel alone. The lobby was deserted, but in the brightly lit dining room off to the side, a man wearing a jacket and tie was setting plates and silverware on a long table. Several lone men, two older women, and a family consisting of mother, father and five children, chatted as they waited on him to complete the chore before they took their chairs. More chairs, standing empty, sat off to one side in case of more guests.

  No sign of Porter Anderson. Drat. I’d hoped to avoid having to search for him.

  Trying to remain unobtrusive, I sauntered over to the unoccupied front desk. I suspected the clerk was the one setting the table, which suited me fine as it kept him busy in the dining room. The register stood open for all to see, if one were proficient at reading some rather appalling hen-scratches serving as signatures. Upside down, no less.

  I’d seen Porter’s handwriting before and recognized his scrawl. A number three was written in a box next to his name. Porter lodged in one of the ground-floor rooms, just down the hall from the desk.

  Laughter rose in the dining room. I took advantage of the noisy hilarity to wave Neva inside, pulling her along with me in the direction of Porter’s room. She didn’t make it easy, resisting all the way. Thank goodness a rug ran down the center of the hall, muffling the clomp of her boots.

  We came to number three. Checking quickly to either side, I tapped on Porter’s door.

  Too light a tap, perhaps, as he didn’t answer. I knocked again, a fraction harder.

  “Porter, are you there?” I kept my call just above a whisper.

  From inside the room, I heard a thump.

  Knocked again. “Porter? It’s China. Let us in.”

  Footsteps shuffled. The door opened. Porter’s face appeared in the opening.

  I gasped. “Porter Anderson, what in the world ... Oh, no! What have you done?”

  “What are you doing here?” He scowled instead of answering my surprised query like any gentleman ought. “Go away.”

  “No. I need to speak with you.”

  “Can’t you see—”

  “Right now,” I said firmly.

  His mouth twisted as resignation set in. “Come in then, before somebody sees you.” He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me into the room. If I hadn’t had hold of Neva to keep her from running away, she would’ve been left standing in the hall.

  “Who have you been fighting with?” I asked, afraid I knew.

  Seeming to see Neva for the first time, Porter eyed her with no particular favor. “Who’s this?” he asked instead of answering my question.

  “Miss China,” Neva said, prim as any old maid, “he doesn’t look very nice to me.”

  I couldn’t say she was wrong.

  Since we’d met this morning, Porter had acquired a beauty of a bruise over one eye, a cut lip that made mine look like a pretender, a gash on his chin and ... did I see the remains of blood in the folds alongside his nose? Narrowing my eyes and inspecting him closely, I decided this appendage appeared more bulbous than usual. And those were just the wounds visible upon a cursory examination. Who knows what else he’d suffered? It seemed to me he was listing to one side.

  Porter stared hard at Neva. “Ain’t we a pair?” he observed, then, his gaze lighting on me, included me in this lucky group. “A crew of beat-up no-hopers for certain.”

  “A trio of them, at any rate,” I said, smiling a little. “You, sir, look like you’ve been run over by a train.”

  “He looks to me like he lost a big fight.” Neva moved to stand behind me as she spoke. She may have had experience with fighters, both as winners and as losers.

  Porter’s jaw jutted forward. “Who says I lost?”

  “Huh,” Neva said, putting so much feeling into the sound it was as though she’d uttered a whole paragraph.

  “Say, China, who is this mouthy little—” He paused a moment. “—female?”

  “This is Miss Neva Sue O’Dell.” I pulled the girl forward. “She owns Mercury.”

  Porter’s brow puckered.

  “Mercury is a horse, and is the odds-on derby favorite,” I clarified. “Or he was. Neva owns him. The thing is, there’s a certain group of people who don’t want him to win. In fact, they want him to lose so badly Neva’s brother, the horse’s jockey, was killed in their last race. The horse was lamed.”

  “What?” He scratched his head. “Wel
l, I guess I might’ve heard something about a young jockey dying. An accident, I heard. You’re saying it wasn’t?”

  His exclamation made me think I was on the right track with my heroic flash and dare ploy.

  “But then somebody wanted him to race today and win, thereby skewing Sunday’s odds. The upshot is, Neva has put her horse in hiding until the derby, and she also needs a safe place to stay until then.”

  “Yeah? This somebody got a name?”

  “Of course.” My lips pursed into a thin line. “We just don’t know it yet. Or at least we don’t know everyone involved in the scam.”

  He looked Neva over, then switched his attention to me again. “She been staying with you? Workin’ for you, is it?”

  “No. She can’t stay with me, I’m afraid. We found out it’s too dangerous.” I smiled at him. “She’s going to stay with you.”

  Putting out a hand as though to ward me off, he backed away like I’d just threatened to shoot him.

  It hadn’t come to that—yet.

  Some kind of weird stuttering came out of his mouth, the gist of which seemed to be, “N-n-n-n-no.” Then louder and firmer, a definite “No.”

  “Shh,” I said. “Not so loud. Everyone in the hotel will hear.”

  “Good. I hope they do. Oughta put a spoke in this particular wheel and a good thing, too.”

  Nevertheless, his voice quieted.

  Beaver’s Family Hotel wasn’t exactly the epitome of luxury. Porter’s small room had a bright blue hand-pieced quilt covering the bed, a single chair and tiny washstand. Oh, and a picture of Christ over the bed.

  Since it was the only place available, I sat down on the bed and prepared to have a cozy chat. Still examining Porter, Neva sat down next to me. She didn’t seem as frightened by him now, perhaps because he was as critical of my plan as she.

  “Please, Porter,” I said. “Look at her. She’s young, she’s scared, and she’s in danger. Can you pleeeease help her?”