* * *
"My, you're a pretty one."
Jaeger raised an eyebrow at the whore, wondering if he had made a mistake. He'd picked her from the three who'd flirted with him at the saloon because she seemed the cleanest and the youngest.
She might also be the most talkative. Since they left the saloon, he didn't believe she had been silent for more than the space of a breath. "We Prussians are a handsome race," he said, feeling the complacence of a spoken truth.
"Well, if you say so, but Otto Pflug, down at the brewery, he's a German, and there's nothing pretty about him." She tuned into a narrow entryway. "Here's my place. Up two flights and to the left."
A quick glance told Jaeger he might have found his ideal lodging at last. The entrance to the upstairs apartments sat between a haberdasher and a bakery, so there would be no one to see who used the stairs in the night. He stood aside so she could precede him up the stairs. "Who else lives up here?" he asked as they reached the first landing and she started up the second flight.
"Fishermen, mostly, on this floor. We're so close to the harbor, you know. And up on the third floor, there's Millie and Yolanda. They're dancers like me."
Yes, she could dance, as he'd seen during the show at the saloon. Another reason he had chosen her. Dancers' bodies were supple and strong, not doughy and soft.
They climbed higher, into a dark, narrow hallway. Only one lamp lit it, a gimbaled brass fixture hanging from the low ceiling. Jaeger wondered if it had been salvaged from a shipwreck.
Crystal opened the second door to the left and motioned him inside. She lit a candle waiting on the small table beside the door. "Just a minute. I got to blow out the lamp."
He looked around. The room was smaller than he'd hoped, with only a single straight chair tucked into the corner beside the chiffonier. A narrow window looked out into darkness, its torn lace curtain offering little concealment. This will not do. "Are there any rooms for rent?" he asked her when she came back.
"Oh, yes. There's the one next door, and another one down on the second floor. At least I think that one's still for rent, because Old Sourpuss was complaining about how much money he was losing with two vacancies. I call him Old Sourpuss because--"
"I want the one on this floor." Jaeger stretched his lips into a smile. "Closer to you," he said softly, touching her cheek.
His finger came away feeling soiled.
"Oh, honey, that's so sweet. I'm sure Old Sourpuss will rent it cheap. He doesn't charge much for the rooms, but be makes us girls pay him a percentage, just because we use them for trade." Her pout told him what she thought of that idea.
Still, it was seductive and he felt a stirring of desire.
"Now, I ask you, is it fair to do that and not charge the fishermen any extra for stinking up the place when they come back after a week at sea, reeking of dead fish and seaweed?"
"Life is seldom fair." Jaeger removed his damp wool coat. "But surely we have other subjects to discuss." Again he touched her cheek, reminding himself that he needed what she could provide. Tomorrow he would go to the steam bath and cleanse himself. With the skill of long practice, he set his mission and his plans aside in the back of his mind and set about making this whore fall in love with him.
He was very good at doing that.
* * *
Buff heard Tuomas return. Still feeling as if his legs weren't reliable, he stayed where he was. If he was needed, Tuomas would fetch him.
When he heard the captain's door open and shut quietly some time later, he pushed himself to his feet. He felt much better, much to his surprise. He could walk with nary a wobble.
Siri was sitting on the bottom step.
"What are you doing there?" he said.
She shrank back, as if afraid of him. "Waiting," she said.
Damn, I thought we'd got past that. "Relax, Siri. I don't bite."
She avoided meeting his eyes. "I wanted to know if Captain Stokes will be well."
Her tone told him she had no reason to trust him. Buff stifled a smile. Maybe she was right. Now he looked at her--really looked at what was under the pulled-back hair and the servant's clothing--he could see she was a beautiful woman. Of course, she could use a few good meals, a decent dress... Oh, hell, you randy bastard. When did you start lusting after the maids? "You should have come into the parlor. It's cold out here," he said, doing his best to sound harmless.
"Oh, no! We are not allowed to sit in here. If Mrs. Welkins--"
"The Welkins are gone for the weekend, aren't they? Who's going to tell her?"
A dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. "Förstås. Of course. You would not... skvallra... tell tales, would you?"
Buff couldn't help grinning. "Tattle," he said. "'Tattle' is the word you want."
"Ah! Tack." She almost smiled.
He could tell she had not relaxed. Not completely. "Was that Tuomas I heard come out?"
"Ja. The doctor sent him for clean blankets."
Just then the young handyman came up from the first floor with his arms full of bedding. "The captain is not sick now," he said, in response to Buff's raised eyebrow. "I am to sleep there tonight. Listen for him." He went into the captain's room again.
"Good idea." Not that Buff couldn't stand watch if he had to, but he'd just as soon not. He still felt a little rocky. He settled himself on the steps beside Siri. "So tell me. Why is a nice girl like you working as a maid in a place like this?" In any city in the world, she could find better paying work and hold onto her virtue--if she chose. And if she didn't choose, which some hotel maids did not, her beauty would earn her a fortune.
All life, all vitality, left her face, as if she had been turned to ice. "There is little work for a respectable woman in Astoria, not if she is unmarried and without family."
"You're an--"
The door they were both watching opened again and the doctor emerged. "Where the dickens is everybody?"
Buff got to his feet, doing so more easily than the last time. "Everyone's gone to bed but us." From the corner of his eye, he could see Siri's face. If she didn't stop gnawing on her lip, she'd have it bleeding.
The doctor set his bag on a table. "Get me some coffee, girl! I've been on the go since dawn."
Siri scooted around him and down the stairs before Buff could tell the doctor to get his own damned coffee.
"So," he said, "how's the captain?"
"He's better, but still not well. Dehydrated now, mostly. I got the beef broth into him, and some of the tea." He looked around. "Where's my overcoat."
"Hall tree, I imagine. He'll be all right, then?"
"Oh, I don't think he'll die, if that's what you're asking. It's hard to tell, though, with a man of his age. I told the lad to keep feeding him tea and more broth if he'll take it. I'll stop by in the morning and see how he is."
"Was it the mushrooms?" Buff didn't believe it was, but he was no expert.
"Doubt it. The rest of you seem to be coming around. I'd say that damn yellow heathen brought in one of his foreign sicknesses. I don't hold with foreigners, myself."
Siri came up from the kitchen with a tray on which were a coffeepot and two cups.
She'd hardly set it down before the doctor was beside her, filling his cup. He blew on the steaming coffee and slurped noisily. With his free hand, he picked up several of the small turnovers they'd had as dessert after dinner and slipped them into his jacket pocket.
Buff considered reminding him they'd been cooked by one of the Chinese men he condemned. Instead he said, "Have you been in Astoria long?"
"Came just last year. I'll be moving on come spring. A more god-forsaken place I've never seen. Can't understand why anyone would want to live here."
"Pretty country," Buff said, with a shrug.
"Too much rain." The Doctor slurped one last time and set the cup aside. "I'll be by after church tomorrow. See that the boy keeps forcing the old man to drink."
"I'll do that." Buff followed the doctor to th
e door and closed it after him. After locking it, he turned and looked at Siri. "I'll check on Captain Stokes myself and let you know how he is."
"I will come in, too." Not a question.
"Let me make sure he's decent, then."
When they'd satisfied themselves that the elderly man was sleeping peacefully, they left his room together. "Come with me," Buff told her. "I'd like to talk to you."
"I must..."
"There's nothing you have to do that won't wait a while." He jerked his chin in the direction of the parlor. "Just for a few minutes."
She shrugged and walked ahead of him across the hall and past the stairs. Her feet, shod in worn boots, made little noise on the bare wood floor, and her limp, gray dress rustled not at all. He had a brief vision of her clad in rich blue satin elaborately decorated with pearls and fringe, her milk-white breasts half-concealed behind delicate lace. With her silvery hair dressed high, tiny curls tickling her vulnerable nape, she would be at once delectable and distant, a shy temptress.
"Mr. Lachlan?"
He started, realized she was looking curiously at him. Blinking, he took a moment to gather his wits about him. "Sit down, Siri," he told her, gesturing toward the brocaded wing chair.
She perched on the very edge of the seat, as if she feared she might damage the upholstery. "Varför kallade du på mig?" She bit her lower lip. "I am sorry. I forget sometimes... Why did you summon me here?"
He stared at her, trying to see what it was about her face that seemed so familiar. It was more than the coloring, more than the squarish jawline. There was an elusive quality... "Did you grow up in Astoria?"
"Ja. Min far... My father was a fisherman."
So were half the men in town. "When did he come here?"
"Long ago. Before I was born, perhaps."
Buff looked at her sharply. "Perhaps? You don't know for sure?"
"I do not remember what he said. Once he told me he had lived here for twenty years."
Well, hell! "So he was here in 1859," he said, almost to himself.
"Förlåta mig? What did you say?"
"Nothing important." He sat back and stroked his chin. So she'd been born here. And she spoke Swedish, not Danish. The resemblance was pure chance. "How old are you?" he asked, more out of curiosity than anything.
"I don't... I am twenty-five."
Why had she hesitated? Was she older than she claimed? She looked to be. "Are you married?"
"Why do you--" Once again she hesitated, staring at him while she gnawed on her bottom lip. "I was," she said at last. "My husband drowned last summer."
Chapter Five
Siri did not care for the direction Mr. Lachlan's questions were taking. Her past was not something she liked to think about, let alone speak of. "I must go to bed," she said, rising.
His hand rose, as if he wished to prevent her leaving. "Wait--" A pause. "Please, I'd like to ask you some more questions."
A lifetime of training held her in the room, victim of a man's wishes. What would he do if she told him she did not wish to stay? Would not answer him?
"Look," he said, "I know you must be tired. Just answer a couple of questions and you can go to bed."
Instead of reseating herself as he gestured her to do, she simply stood and waited.
"I'm looking for a woman," he said, as he had to Mrs. Leong.
"I do not--"
"Not that kind of woman. This one would be a little younger than you. Her name is Astrid. She's Danish. She'd be tall, and her hair would be like yours...like liquid moonlight."
She forced herself to ignore his words, the sudden seductive tone of his voice. There was only one reason a man who looked like him would seek a woman, no matter what he claimed. "There are Danes in Astoria." She shrugged. "I know a few of them, but no woman named Astrid." A yawn caught her unawares, and she made no effort to hide it. "I am very tired."
He stared at her for a long time, holding her in place with his gaze. "You remind me so much of him," he said at last, almost as if speaking to himself. "It's uncanny."
Siri refused to ask who he was talking about. "Do you have any other questions?"
He continued to stare at her, his gaze intent and suspicious. At last he said, "No. No, that's all. Go to bed."
She was on the stairs when she heard his deep voice again. "You were a big help tonight, Siri. Thank you."
She continued up the stairs without answering. A warm glow sat in her middle, though. Having a man thank her for anything she did was rare. They all seemed to believe that women were put upon this earth to serve them.
* * *
Buff saw Siri go out the back door and head towards town shortly after breakfast the next morning. He was lingering over his coffee, wondering what to do on this fine Sunday. The sun was trying to shine, an event worthy of note in January hereabouts, he understood. He strolled over to the side window, cup in hand, and watched her out of sight. "Off to church?" he wondered out loud.
"We take turns," Carleen said, behind him.
He hadn't meant to speak aloud, and certainly hadn't meant for the red-haired maid to hear him. Carleen was a lusty wench who'd already made it clear she'd warm his bed whenever he wanted. One thing Buff had learned in his years of travel was to appreciate subtlety.
Carleen was about as subtle as the breakers at Point Adams.
"I saw a couple of churches while I was walking about town," he said, "but didn't pay any attention to which ones." When he'd seen the newly painted spire of the Methodist Church, he'd been reminded of something his pa had said, years ago. Something about civilization being measured by how many churches a town had in comparison to how many saloons. As far as he could see, in Astoria the saloons were winning, hands down.
"Seems to me there's more churches every year," the commodore said, joining Buff at the window. "Used to be, a man had to look far and wide to find Sunday services. Now all he has to do is walk down the street."
"I imagine you've seen some changes," Buff said. He glanced at the older man, who last night had been pale and hollow-cheeked. "How are you feeling this morning, sir?"
"Tolerable, now I've had my victuals. I woke up hungry enough to eat a whale." He rubbed his rotund belly. "Felt like I'd been turned inside out and scraped clean."
Since that was a pretty good description for how Buff had felt upon waking, he smiled. "First time I can remember porridge tasting halfway edible." He felt pretty good now. Unlike Tuomas, who he'd met in the hall on the way down. The poor lad had been pretty green about the gills.
"Yessir, I have seen a lot of changes hereabouts," the retired bar pilot said. "When I first came, back in '42, there wasn't even a dock here. Ships offloaded by tender, those few that had cargo for Astoria. Most of us still lived in log cabins. A man could walk outside and shoot supper without going a mile. Now look at it!"
Buff did, what he could see of the town from this side window. Astoria was still a raw, frontier place, but he'd seen others far less finished. In fact the first town he'd ever seen made this one look downright civilized.
He set his empty coffee cup aside. "I think I'll take a walk. Would you care to go with me, sir?"
"Not this morning, lad. I'm still a little shaky on my pins. When you're as old as I am..."
"I'll see you later then." Buff went to his room and got his coat and hat, knowing if he didn't take them, it would be sure to rain. He'd seen most of the town already, but only shrouded in rain. A place looked different in sunlight.
As he came back downstairs, he heard Carleen speaking to someone in the lobby. The man's harsh, demanding voice belonged to none of the hotel's residents. Buff slowed and listened.
"Where's your boss?"
"The Welkins went to Lexington for a few days. You'll have to tell me what you want, Brody." She didn't sound as if she particularly cared what the fellow had to say.
"You've got a new boarder." It wasn't a question.
Buff silently descended the last few steps and peered a
round the corner. He knew Carleen saw him, but like the good girl she was, she gave no sign.
The big man standing with his back to Buff wore a dark blue uniform with braid on the shoulders. A billy-club hung from his wide ammunition belt, on the opposite side from a holstered revolver. A policeman. He'd known Astoria had a police force, but had not encountered any of its members yet.
"We don't talk about our guests," Carleen said, primly, and with emphasis on the word guests.
"Look here, Carleen, I know he's staying here. Just give me his room number."
"Whose?" Her tone could not have been sweeter, or more innocent.
"That fella came in on the Chinese Duchess last Tuesday. I don't know his name."
Carleen picked up a pen and inspected its nib. "Then how do you know you want to talk to him?"
"I'm supposed to talk to everybody who got off. Now are you gonna tell me which room is his?"
"It's Number 8, up on the fourth floor. But Brody, it's still early. He might be sleeping in." Considering she'd served him breakfast about an hour ago, Buff decided Carleen was just trying to get the officer's goat.
A meaty fist hit the counter. "I don't care. I want to talk to him."
"He may have gone out," Carleen said, not sounding at all cowed. "I heard him say something about it."
"Then I'll wait." He turned away, then looked back. "I thought you said you hadn't seen him this morning."
Buff chuckled aloud when she stuck her nose in the air.
The policeman looked over his shoulder. "Something funny, boyo?"
"Private joke. You're looking for me, I believe?" He gestured. "Let's go into the library. I think it's empty." He led the way.
Stopping in the doorway, as if to prevent Buff's escape, the policeman pulled out a notebook and pencil. Moistening the lead, he said, "You came in on the Chinese Duchess on Tuesday, the seventh of January, 1873?"
Relaxing into the captain's favorite wing chair, Buffalo nodded. "I did. Is there a problem, ah...officer...?"
"Gillespie. Officer Gillespie. And I'll be asking the questions. Where'd you come from?"
"Honolulu," Buff said. Then as if it were an afterthought, because the man's officiousness irritated him, "Shanghai, Rangoon, Bangkok, Macao. Bombay. Uh, Let me see..." He pretended to count on his fingers. "Cape Town?"
The Lost Baroness Page 5