The Loner: Crossfire tl-11

by J. A. Johnstone

  Conrad wasn’t surprised when he saw the man’s yellow-hued skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and black hair braided into a pigtail that hung down his back between his shoulders. The man also had a peculiar scar shaped like a half-moon on his right cheek. The hatchet men of Chinatown were famous—or notorious was probably a better word to describe them—but Conrad didn’t know any reason why one of them would be helping him.

  He wasn’t going to turn down the aid. As he struggled to his feet, he spotted a man with an old cap-and-ball revolver on the balcony drawing a bead on the big Chinese.

  Conrad’s hand flashed to his Colt still behind his belt at the small of his back. Sweeping his coattails aside, he brought up the revolver and fired a split second before the man on the balcony did. Conrad’s bullet smashed into the man’s elbow, shattering bone and throwing off his aim. The old revolver boomed, but the heavy slug smacked harmlessly into a wall. The man screamed, dropped the gun, and clutched at his wounded arm. He fell forward against the railing along the edge of the balcony, smashed through it, and plummeted into the angry crowd, knocking a couple men to the floor as they broke his fall.

  Conrad put his back against that of his unexpected ally and swept the gun around. The mob drew back.

  “I’m not a spy and I’m not a policeman,” Conrad said raggedly as he continued to catch his breath. “But I’m leaving here, and nobody better try to stop me.”

  “You lie!” Dutchy accused. “You’re up to no good!”

  “Back off and I’ll never set foot in this place again. I promise you that!”

  Gradually, the crowd parted. Conrad kept a close eye on them as he edged toward the door with the Chinese man beside him.

  Evidently anyone who had the impulse to pull a gun thought better of it, having seen what had happened to the man on the balcony. Conrad and his companion reached the door. They couldn’t go through it together. The Chinese man jerked his head toward the door, indicating Conrad should go first. He didn’t argue and ducked outside.

  No sooner had his boots hit the street than a shot rang out from his right. He heard a bullet whip past his head and twisted in that direction. Some of Dutchy’s friends must have come out a side entrance and up the alley to the street. More shots blasted as orange muzzle flame stabbed from the darkness of the alley mouth.

  Conrad crouched and returned the fire, triggering two swift shots as he aimed at the flashes. Beside him, the Chinese man emerged from the saloon and took a hand in the fight, too. His arm flashed back, then forward, and the hatchet he held spun through the air. Conrad heard a distinctive chunk! and a man screamed.

  The shooting stopped as a figure reeled forward into the dim light spilling through the grimy windows of Spanish Charley’s place. The man pawed with both hands at the hatchet blade buried in his upper chest. His strength deserted him, and he pitched forward.

  Conrad grabbed the sleeve of the black jacket the man wore and tugged on it. “Let’s get out of here!”

  As furious shouts rose behind them, they ran along the street. A few wild shots followed them, but none of the men from Spanish Charley’s gave chase. Conrad and his companion had proven to be too deadly.

  After putting several blocks behind them, the two men slowed. Conrad heard shrill whistles in the distance and knew the police were converging on the saloon in response to reports of the gunfire. They would be too late, as usual. The ruckus was over.

  Conrad looked at his companion. He didn’t know if the man spoke English, but he said, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer back there without your help.”

  The man grunted.

  “What’s your name?” Conrad asked. “Did you just happen to come along and see what was going on?” He didn’t believe that for a second, but wasn’t aware of any other explanation.

  The Chinese man didn’t say anything. He looked at Conrad with narrowed eyes for a second, then turned and loped away into the night.

  “Hey, wait!” Conrad called after him, but it didn’t do any good. In a matter of moments, the man disappeared into the shadows, just like he had shown up suddenly and mysteriously.

  Conrad shook his head. He had no explanation for what had just happened, but he knew he’d been lucky to get out of Spanish Charley’s alive. Now that he’d been given another chance, he intended to make good use of it as he continued his search for his children.

  He had what might be his best clue so far. One of the men who had taken part in the attempt on his life had a connection to the Golden Gate, a saloon or gambling den on Grant Street. Should he turn over that information to Claudius Turnbuckle and see what the lawyer’s hired detectives could find out about it?

  Or should he continue his own investigation and pay a visit to the Golden Gate himself?

  He knew which way he was leaning, but he had done enough for one night. He still had to find a way to sneak back into the Palace Hotel without Morelli spotting him.

  That proved to be easier than Conrad expected. He used a tradesman’s entrance in the rear to get into the hotel, then climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where a stealthy look around the corner revealed that Morelli was sitting back in his chair with his hat tipped forward over his eyes, snoring heartily. Conrad crept past him silently, unlocked the door of his suite, and let himself in. The door squeaked as he opened it, and Morelli began to stir.

  Conrad had lost the stevedore’s cap during the fight at Spanish Charley’s. Stepping into the bedroom, he grabbed a long, thick robe and wrapped it around himself as he strode back to the door and jerked it open. He surprised Morelli in the act of raising a hand to rap on the door.

  “Mr. Browning!” the bodyguard said. “What ... I thought I heard ... Is something wrong?”

  “Only you sleeping on the job,” Conrad said in a chilly tone. “My God, man, I could hear you snoring while I was all the way in the bedroom.”

  Morelli snatched off his derby and stammered, “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Browning. It won’t happen again, I swear. I won’t close my eyes the rest of the night. Y-you can see your way clear not to say anything to Mr. Turnbuckle about this, can’t you?”

  Conrad kept a frown on his face for a moment, but when he figured he had maintained the act long enough, he shrugged. “All right. But stay alert, Morelli.” He added caustically, “I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but somebody wants me dead.”

  “Yes, sir, I know, but they’ll not get past me, sir, you’ve got my solemn oath on that!”

  Conrad made a shooing motion with his hand, sending Morelli back to the armchair. He closed the door, drew in a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. His ribs ached from that bear hug Ulrich had put on him. But the Palace, haven of luxury that it was, had hot running water available in all its suites, so Conrad drew a bath, stripped off the workingman’s clothes, and sank down in a massive, claw-footed porcelain tub to soak away those aches.

  He made sure his Colt was fully loaded and lying on a chair within easy reach of the bathtub, and alongside the gun he had placed the carved ivory token from the Golden Gate. After soaking for a while, he reached over to the chair, picked up the token, and studied it, idly turning it over in his fingers.

  Tomorrow he would find out more about the place it came from. If someone connected with the Golden Gate had the initials D.L., he would know he was still on the right trail. And if not ... well, he would keep looking.

  Nothing was going to stop him from finding and claiming his children. This was the endgame, and Pamela wasn’t going to win.

  Chapter 12

  The redheaded, mustachioed Dugan was on bodyguard duty again the next morning when Conrad opened the door to Claudius Turnbuckle’s knock. Conrad nodded and smiled at Dugan and ushered Turnbuckle into the suite. “Coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Turnbuckle replied.

  Conrad had been eating breakfast, which had been delivered to the suite by a waiter from the hotel dining room. He had also been reading that morning’s issue of the San Francis
co Chronicle, which had been brought up with the food and coffee. Tucked away in the paper’s rear pages was a small story about a brawl at a saloon in the notorious area known as the Barbary Coast resulting in the death of two men, one from a gunshot wound and the other from injuries inflicted with a hatchet, which had been found still lodged in the victim’s body. The presence of the hatchet led the author of the story to speculate that perhaps one of the tongs from nearby Chinatown had been involved in the violence.

  The same possibility had occurred to Conrad once he had time to think over the events of the evening. The criminal societies known as tongs had ruled San Francisco’s Chinatown for more than four decades, ever since the Chinese began to arrive in the gold rush days along with everyone else. The rulers of the tongs used assassins known as hatchet men to maintain their iron grip on the neighborhood and also to battle each other in bloody wars over who controlled what in Chinatown.

  The big man in black who had come to Conrad’s aid certainly fit the description of a hatchet man, but for the life of him Conrad couldn’t see why such an individual would invade a “round eyes” saloon to rescue him. He had no connection with the tongs whatsoever.

  Conrad poured coffee for Turnbuckle, who put his hat and overcoat on a side table and took the steaming cup gratefully. “Anything to report?” Conrad asked as he sat down at the table again.

  Turnbuckle shook his head and looked weary. “No, I’m afraid not, perhaps by the end of the day. Until we know something my men will continue to investigate.” He took a sip of the coffee. “Any problems here last night?”

  “How could there be, with your man Morelli on duty?” Conrad asked with a bland smile. “And in the finest hotel in San Francisco, to boot.”

  Turnbuckle grunted. “Nothing about this affair surprises me anymore.”

  Conrad smiled to himself. He suspected if Turnbuckle knew everything that had happened the previous night, he would be surprised, all right.

  The lawyer was a friend who had gone to great lengths to help him on more than one occasion, and Conrad felt bad for withholding information, but thought he might have more luck investigating the latest lead by himself. He could always bring Turnbuckle in when he knew more.

  They talked rather aimlessly for a few more minutes, then Turnbuckle asked, “What are you going to do today?”

  Conrad picked up the folded newspaper. “I thought I might go down to the Chronicle offices.”

  “Why?” Turnbuckle asked with a puzzled frown.

  “Newspapermen are famous for knowing what’s going on. I want to talk to a journalist I know who works there.”

  Turnbuckle shook his head. “No offense, Conrad, but that’s a bad idea. You wanted to keep this matter quiet if possible. That’s why we haven’t brought the police in on it. Talking to a reporter is like asking to have your personal affairs shouted from the rooftops.”

  “You’re probably right in most cases, but I believe the man I’m thinking of will respect my wishes if I ask him for privacy.”

  “Never trust a newspaperman, that’s my motto,” Turnbuckle said stubbornly.

  Conrad smiled. “Some people say the same thing about lawyers,” he pointed out.

  Turnbuckle grunted. “Of course you should do whatever you think is best. I’ve given you my advice. That’s my job.”

  “And you’re excellent at it.”

  “If you go out, at least take Dugan with you.”

  “I don’t think the estimable Mr. Dugan would have it otherwise.”

  Turnbuckle finished his coffee and left. Conrad dressed in his black suit and flat-crowned black Stetson. When he stepped out of the suite, Dugan stood up immediately from the armchair.

  “Goin’ somewhere, Mr. Browning?” the bodyguard asked.

  “I am, and you’re coming with me,” Conrad answered. “Do you know how to get to the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle ?”

  “I sure do. You need to put an advertisement or a notice in the paper?”

  “Something like that.”

  They left the hotel and walked several blocks to the impressive redbrick building that housed the offices of the Chronicle. A woman at a counter in the lobby directed Conrad and Dugan to the third floor, where they found a large open area littered with desks where men sat pecking at typewriters. Conrad spotted the slender, balding man he was looking for and walked over to that desk, trailed by Dugan.

  The reporter glanced up as they approached, then looked again with eyes grown wide with surprise. “Conrad Browning!” he exclaimed as he came to his feet. “I heard rumors you were in town, but I hadn’t been able to confirm them yet.”

  “Hello, Jessup.” Conrad shook hands with the man. Despite the lack of hair on the reporter’s head, he was about Conrad’s age. In fact, they had been in college together for a while before Jessup Nash had decided he had no interest in running the textile mills his family owned and had disappointed them severely by going into journalism.

  “Jessup, this is Patrick Dugan,” Conrad went on, having asked the big bodyguard his first name earlier. “Dugan, meet Jessup Nash.”

  Dugan grunted as his hairy paw all but swallowed Nash’s smaller hand. “I’ve seen the name in the paper. Never thought I’d be meetin’ the fella it belongs to.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Dugan.” Nash turned back to Conrad. “What brings you to San Francisco? Business or pleasure?”

  “For some people it’s the same thing,” Conrad pointed out.

  “Yes, I remember when it was like that for you. But from everything that I’ve heard, ever since—” Nash stopped short and looked horrified. “Damn it, Conrad, I was so glad to see you that for a minute I forgot ... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about your wife, and then everybody said you were ... I mean—”

  “I know what you mean”—Conrad nodded—“and I appreciate the sentiments, Jessup. But sympathy’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for information.”

  “Of course.” Nash pulled a chair from an empty desk over beside his desk. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “You want me to stay, Mr. Browning?” Dugan rumbled.

  “I think it would be all right for you to go down to the lobby where you’ll be comfortable. I’m confident no one will try to assassinate me here in the Chronicle’s editorial offices.”

  Dugan frowned. “Sounds good, but I’m supposed to keep my eye on you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Conrad promised. “I’ll come get you when I’m ready to leave.”

  “If you’re tryin’ to trick me, you know I’ll lose my job over this.”

  Conrad smiled. “I wouldn’t do that to those four redheaded little ones of yours.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Dugan said ominously. He walked back to the stairs and disappeared down them.

  As Conrad and Nash sat down, the reporter said, “Your friend Mr. Dugan has the appearance of someone who’s been hired to look after you. By Claudius Turnbuckle, say?”

  “Jessup, before I tell you anything, or ask you anything, I have a request.”

  Nash looked pained. “You don’t want me to print anything that we’re about to discuss.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s a very difficult thing for a journalist to promise, Conrad. Our business is finding things to print.”

  “I know that. And I can give you a good story—maybe a better story than you’ve ever had—but only when the time is right.”

  “You’ll promise me an exclusive in return for my discretion and cooperation now?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nash thought about it for a moment before saying, “Normally I wouldn’t agree to such a thing. But since we’re old friends ... and since I have a hunch you’re right about it being quite a story ... I’ll take a chance. What is it you want to know?”

  “I have your word you won’t write anything about this until I tell you it’s all right?”

  Nash nodded, altho
ugh he still looked a little reluctant. “My word.”

  “What can you tell me about a place in the Barbary Coast called the Golden Gate?”

  “The Golden Gate what? Walk around this city and you’ll find everything from the Golden Gate Saloon to the Golden Gate Laundry. You mentioned the Barbary Coast, which leads me to think you’re more likely talking about the saloon.”

  “There is such a place?”

  “Oh, yes. One of the biggest drinking and gambling establishments in the area. Other things go on there as well, if you get my drift.”

  Conrad reached in his pocket and took out the ivory token. “Is this from there?”

  Nash barely glanced at the token before he nodded. “Sure. How did you get hold of one?”

  “Never mind that now. What’s its purpose?”

  “Twofold, actually. All the people who work at the Golden Gate carry them, and the owner also hands them out to certain customers so they can gain entrance to the second floor, where the real drinking and gambling and those other things I mentioned go on.”

  “The owner,” Conrad repeated.

  “That’s right. If you have one of those tokens, you must know him. His name’s Dex Lannigan.”

  Dex Lannigan. The name echoed in Conrad’s head.

  He had found D.L.

  Chapter 13

  Conrad tried to keep the reaction he felt from showing on his face. “Dex Lannigan, eh?”

  “Are you telling me you don’t know him?” Nash asked with a puzzled frown.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how did you get that token?”

  “That’s part of the story I’ve promised you when the time is right. What can you tell me about Lannigan?”

  Nash grunted and spoke quietly. “He owns a successful saloon on Grant Street, smack-dab between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown. That ought to tell you everything you need to know about the man. Despite a veneer of smoothness, Dex Lannigan is no more honest than he has to be. He’s shrewd, ruthless, and dangerous. I suspect some of his competitors found that out to their regret. Before their bodies were dumped in the bay or out at sea, that is.”