Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  I scanned the animals, looking for a sleek bay without finding one. None had the correct coloration. Drat! I’d been so sure—

  A movement from a horse tied in the middle of the picket line caught my eye. A toss of the head shook a precisely braided forelock from its eye. A bay, all right. Mostly. I almost laughed out loud because of the series of odd-looking white spots peppering its hindquarters. Clever. Unfortunately, an all-too-conspicuous wrapping tied around the horse’s left front leg sort of ruined the disguise.

  I didn’t let on that I’d noticed a thing. As for anyone noticing me, well, I might have wandered into a camp of the blind.

  Nobody can say I’m easily driven from the path I’ve chosen. I prowled quickly among the tents. The threat to Neva drove me to hurry, while allowing what I saw to connect with what I knew. Monk and Gratton, whether they were aware of it or not, had been good teachers.

  Monk advised a detective to look for what isn’t there, but should be.

  Gratton said to watch for the one thing different from all the others.

  So I looked and watched as I strode about. I nodded and smiled at the few people who deigned to meet my eyes until at last, using Grat’s criterion, I found that one thing. Such an ordinary thing, at that, and not so very different from its fellows. Even so, it brought me to a halt outside a shabby gray canvas tent whose guy ropes were tight as a tick. A second oddity, I decided as I digested its implications, telling me this particular tent had recently been pitched. The others had been here since the fair began and their ropes were beginning to sag.

  Close to a fire burning cheerfully in front of the tent—but not too close—a rickety wooden chair held an old lady. She was drinking coffee from a pint-sized mason jar, and drawing deeply on a shiny brown pipe. At her side, seated on an old rag rug, a young fellow drew his hat over his eyes and pretended I wasn’t there. He also had a jar of coffee, hands clamped so tightly around it his knuckles showed white.

  I wasn’t fooled. He’d been watching me from the moment I arrived.

  “Good morning,” I said to them both. Neither answered. The old lady blew a puff of rank tobacco smoke upwards into my face, making me cough. The boy—almost a man—uttered what I thought might have been a protest, but at the old lady or at me, I couldn’t tell.

  I spoke to the boy when it became plain neither of them was going to start a conversation. “I’m China Bohannon. May I assume Neva O’Dell has mentioned me?”

  He jerked. The old lady’s toes tapped on the ground as though wishing for a chair to rock. “Never heard of you,” she said. “What do you want?”

  A tiny frazzle of tension eased. I’d come to the right place. The first oddity I’d noticed, the fact this one campfire was built on raw ground, not ashes like the others, had led me well.

  “I need your help.” My reply may have seemed to answer the old lady, although I looked at the boy as I spoke. “Neva is missing, apparently kidnapped. Someone, a man, delivered a note threatening her safety to Mr. Anderson’s room.” I paused, unable to keep the condemnation I felt from showing on my face. “You do know he was only trying to protect her, don’t you? I wish you hadn’t struck him.”

  The boy sprang to his feet like a particularly lithe feline. “Neva is missing?”

  I was able to see his face, now. A good-looking kid, deeply tanned skin, eyes as dark as Neva’s own, black of hair, skinny and not very tall, but his adult muscle buildup well along. Probably some Indian blood not too far back. Obviously the friend she’d mentioned, and most probably the person who’d gotten Porter to the lady doctor after he’d been ambushed.

  We hadn’t the time for me to pull my punches. “Yes. When Mr. Anderson got back to his hotel after the doctor treated him, he found a note shoved under his door.”

  The kid was no expert at dissembling. In truth, I was glad to see his face crumble and turn crimson at hearing about Porter. “We didn’t ...,” he started.

  I cut him off. “Don’t bother to deny it. I know, and so does Mr. Anderson, you were only trying to protect Neva. Now, do you want to know what the note says?”

  He nodded. His granny—I felt certain she was his granny, if not his great-granny—remained silent, watchful, concerned.

  “The note isn’t signed, of course, but it says they’ve taken Neva. It says if the horse isn’t returned by noon, he’s putting out her eyes.” I’d almost forgotten the book, since the main search had been for Mercury. And yet, should he be the center of attention? Or should the book? Mercury or the book? Book or Mercury. My mind whirled. Anyway, I’d found the horse. One out of two isn’t bad. Besides, find Neva, find the book. That much seemed simple.

  “Her eyes?” The kid’s concern stopped at Neva. His skin went from red to sallow. He swallowed with a choking sound. “Who— They can have the horse. Where—”

  “Hush, Lorenzo,” the granny said. “How do you know this is the right woman? She could be anybody. Someone that O’Dell woman has hired.” She muttered something about “mothers” and “trash.”

  Good to know I wasn’t the only one who recognized Hazel O’Dell for a true villain.

  Lorenzo shook his head. “No. This is her. Neva pointed her out to me a couple days ago. She said she trusted her. But she didn’t want Miss Bohannon to—”

  Impatient, I interrupted. “If you mean Neva didn’t want me to know where she hid Mercury, it was my suggestion that she not tell me. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to lie to anyone about his whereabouts. But after Mr. Anderson and I talked this morning, I had a good idea where to find him. And, of course, there he is.” I let my gaze flick to the picket line. “What I need to know is who snatched Neva, where they snatched her from, and where they’ve taken her now. And then I intend to free her. You can help me, if you will. Did you see her all the way home, Lorenzo? Or rather, back to Mr. Anderson’s hotel?”

  The kid reminded me of a puppy who’d wet on his master’s best rug, one with his belly exposed and whimpering, just waiting for punishment.

  “No,” he almost whispered. “Neva didn’t want me along, in case the clerk caught sight of me. She said she’d be all right. And besides, she was mad at me for what happened to Mr. Anderson. She said I had to take care of him right away, get him some help.”

  My heart lifted at hearing this. So Neva hadn’t been in on hurting Porter, who’d only wanted to see her safe. I’d been right about the kids. They’d been scared. But not, I figured, as scared as they both must be right now.

  “So she must have been taken right off the street. Unless the desk clerk at the Michigan withheld most of what he knew.” Which he might have done. I tried to think. “Did you spot anyone who didn’t seem to fit in? Who struck you—or Neva, for that matter—as suspicious?”

  “No. Well, maybe. Neva said she heard someone behind her on the way here yesterday morning, although she didn’t see anyone. But she’s been awful nervous ever since Robbie died.”

  “With good reason, I’d say.”

  Even Granny had to agree, murmuring to herself as she relit her pipe, which she’d allowed to go out. Her bright black gaze darted between me and Lorenzo.

  “But no strangers have come around asking for her? Anyone?” I pressed on. “Anyone at all?”

  “Aside from Mr. Anderson?” Lorenzo stopped his head in the middle of a shake. “One. Maybe. A big man. I seen him a couple times looking at the horses but he didn’t come too close. Didn’t ask about Neva, either. I figured he must just be visiting somebody here in camp. Myra Wallace ain’t no better than she—”

  “Hush, Lorenzo,” Granny cut in. “It’s not for us to judge.”

  “Big?” I said. Suddenly cold, I held my hands to the fire, hoping to warm them. “How big. Did he ... tell me about him, Lorenzo. Because a big man stopped me yesterday morning. A scary big man.” I hesitated. “He had a knife.”

  Granny’s chair squeaked as she leaned forward, glaring into Lorenzo’s face. “Child, we don’t want to be mixed up in this any more
than what we already are. I’m sorry for your little friend, but I’m too old to take these people on, and you’re too young. Besides ...” She paused as though to give the final blow. “... you’re the only boy in this family, in this generation. Who else is going to carry on our name if something happens to you? Something like what happened to Robbie.” Her rheumy eyes switched to me. “Lorenzo is a rider, too. He and Robbie were always in competition.”

  Unsurprised, I huffed out a tiny laugh. “I don’t suppose either of you would like to tell me what that name is.”

  “Bassi,” Granny said, reaching over Lorenzo’s “Bass,” his version having been Americanized. Or maybe he’d heard of the outlaw, Sam Bass, and decided it sounded romantic. For all I knew, the outlaw’s name might also once have been Italian.

  “Where did you last see Neva?” I asked the boy.

  “At the doctor’s gate. She said she’d be fine, but wanted to get back to her room before Mr. Anderson woke up. Before daylight, too, ’cause she didn’t want the clerk to see her. She didn’t want anyone to know she was staying at the Michigan. For all the people who work there knew, Mr. A was using the spare room for business.”

  No flies on Porter. Even though, in the end, the plan hadn’t been foolproof.

  “How far was that from the hotel?”

  He thought. “About a mile, I guess.”

  “I’ll have to start there.” I was thinking aloud, although Lorenzo and his granny watched me with worried eyes. “See if anyone along the way may have seen her.” At this stage of the game, about a mile sounded like a lot of ground to cover in the allotted time.

  I studied the boy’s drawn face. “The note said by noon. I don’t suppose you’d like to help?”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Lorenzo,” Granny said in warning. “Think what you’re doing. If they’ve taken the girl, they may think two hostages are better than one.”

  For all her wizened appearance, it didn’t seem as though the old lady’s intelligence was on the wane. And I couldn’t blame her for not wanting her grandson involved. Or not much.

  Lorenzo, on the other hand, had his mind made up.

  “She’d do it for me,” he said.

  He emptied the remainder of his coffee onto the ground, kissed his granny on the top of her head, and we departed.

  Did I feel a frisson along my spine warning of trouble? If so, I was getting used to it.

  25

  Ten minutes later, we stood outside the doctor’s gate. We didn’t go in, but Lorenzo pointed out the direction he’d seen Neva take when they split up. We tramped along as he said she had done, soon coming to a cross street. From there, she could’ve gone either east or west. One way took a longer route than the other, requiring an extra block or two, but better lit and safer as it dodged a particularly well-known ... um ... boardinghouse area.

  I stood on the corner and looked around, my neck twisting like an owl’s. “Which way?” I asked Lorenzo.

  He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and scuffed his shabby boots on the ground. “Dunno.” Silent for a moment, he said, “Wish I had my hound dog, Growler, along. Bet he’d be able to scent her out.”

  “Me, too.” I said, and added, when he gave me a funny look, “Wish you’d brought your hound dog, I mean. I’m afraid this is beyond my dog’s abilities.”

  “Yeah. Neva told me about your dog. Said she’d never seen anything like her before.”

  I’d come to expect such double-edged comments. “Nimble is a companion dog,” I informed him, feeling a bit defensive for some reason, “although she certainly got the best of Neva’s granddad yesterday.”

  He smiled a little. “She told me that, too.”

  All of which made no headway when it came to finding Neva. There seemed only one thing to do.

  “I’ll go right, you take the left,” I said.

  But he said, “No. Right is a bad area for a lady all by her lonesome. I’ll take that side.”

  “If it’s so bad, Neva would surely have avoided going there. Wouldn’t she?”

  He shrugged. “Nothin’ she hasn’t seen before.”

  I do believe I was a little slighted. I am no delicate fairy, after all. I am a detective and I had once, although inadvertently, mixed it up with prostitutes. Came out unscathed by the experience, too.

  “If Neva felt capable, then I am capable too. Besides, it’s shorter, and my feet hurt.” They didn’t, but something told me this was the correct action to take.

  “I should stay with you,” Lorenzo said stubbornly. “We can do both ways together. Take the likeliest one first.”

  His intentions, I daresay, were right on track.

  “There’s no time.” I glanced at the round silver watch pinned to the front of my blouse. “We can’t take the chance of missing word of her. You know what to do?”

  He gave in. “Yes. Knock on doors. Go in businesses. Tell ’em what she looks like and that she’s been kidnapped. If they saw anything, hurry up and say so.”

  “Correct. I want people to know she’s been kidnapped, not a case of a runaway girl. And if you get any news, come and find me. I’ll be asking the same things.”

  He nodded. “I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “Right. This shouldn’t take more than an hour. Better not take more than an hour. Time is growing short.”

  He’d already begun walking away, but he stopped and looked back at me. “What if nobody’s seen her? What will we do then?”

  I took a deep breath. What would we do then? “Somebody out there has to have seen something. We’ll find whoever it is,” I said, “and then we’ll find her.”

  Lorenzo had spoken truly. The area I’d chosen to canvass wasn’t exactly filled with South Hill mansions. At this time of day few residents were about. Ladies of the night are just that; women known to make themselves scarce during the daytime. When Neva had come through here though, there may have been more activity. Only a hootch factory and a corner grocer appeared to be ready to conduct business, their doors standing open.

  I turned into the grocery store to be met by a dour-faced man who looked like he needed to eat more of his own product. His shelves, from what I could tell in the rather dim light, appeared well stocked, and a meat counter contained the usual cuts. A closer look, however, showed cans with faded labels, pork chops with dry edges, and withered-looking hams. Not a shop I would patronize, given a choice. Perhaps that accounted for his drawn appearance.

  He may, however, have been a better person than the surroundings indicated. “Lady,” he said, “you’re in the wrong neighborhood. You don’t belong here. Hurry along south for two blocks and then go left. Don’t look at nobody and don’t talk to nobody.”

  Talk about a bum’s rush! More forceful than the Michigan’s desk clerk, he shooed me away so fast I barely had time to question him about Neva.

  “Ain’t seen her,” he said quickly. Too quickly, perhaps? “Don’t want to, either. I mind my own business and you should, too.”

  And that, as they say, was that.

  Outside the now-closed door, I brushed imaginary soil from the hem of my skirt in a huff. “Dratted man,” I muttered. Perhaps I’d find the person I saw peering above the bat-wing doors in the saloon across the street more cooperative.

  I cut across Front Avenue, coming to a halt in front of Bart’s Bar, a disreputable joint if I’ve ever heard of one. My nostrils flared. What a stink! The great unwashed evidently gathered here, to spill booze and smoke rank tobacco. And what else did they do? I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to find Neva.

  The flappy half door squeaked on its hinges as I pushed it open and took a single step inside. The interior was even worse than the exterior. It featured a splintery board floor, a few rickety tables with overhead coal-oil lanterns—no electricity here—and a prominently displayed lithograph of a rather chubby naked lady.

  Averting my eyes, I turned to the big mirror behind the scarred oak bar. Squat bottles of liquor sat on
shelves in front of the mirror, which reflected the image of a lone man sitting on a stool.

  Our eyes met in the mirror. I don’t know about him, but I didn’t care for what I saw.

  I cleared my dry throat. “I beg your pardon. I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you can help me.”

  “Looking for me, I expect.” The bartender swept my person with a lascivious eye. “You’re new. Kind of different. Hansen recruit you? Dammit, he could’ve said something.”

  Hansen. I put the name away to think about later and stood my ground. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Maybe I did, but I’d never admit it. Not to him, at least. “I’m trying to find a young girl who vanished from around here sometime this morning. I’m afraid she’s been kidnapped.”

  A change, one hard to put my finger on, came over him. He eased himself from the stool and walked toward me, his gait as smooth and cautious as a cat’s. “Guess we’re even.” He spoke in a quiet voice I strained to hear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, either. Are you accusing me of kidnapping this girl?”

  I put my hand in my pocket, finding the grip of the .32 exceptionally comforting right at this moment. “Should I?”

  “Better not.” He stopped in front of me. The sleeves of his rather grimy white shirt were rolled to his elbows, held there by elastic bands over massive muscles. Brown hair greased his collar. His teeth were stained by tobacco.

  He frightened me.

  I cleared the collywobbles blocking my throat. “I wanted to ask if you might have seen her, is all. She’s only fourteen, about yea tall—” I measured with my hand. “—and has ...”

  “Nope.” Easy to see he wasn’t interested.

  “But I haven’t finished—”

  “If you’re not looking for a job, you’re finished,” he said, even more quietly. “Get out of here, and be quick about it. You’re a pretty girl and you’re in the wrong neighborhood. Never know but what you might be kidnapped yourself.”