"Never mind. Your business?"
"Business?"
"What you do for a living, man. What brought you to Astoria?" A muscle jumped in the policeman's jaw.
Buff said gently, "I'm an adventurer. I play cards. Or dice. Roulette...Baccarat...." He carefully omitted the principal way he'd made a living over the past few years.
"Gambler." The pencil point dug into the paper. "Now then, you were seen to get off the ship last, but not that long after the rest of the debarking passengers. How long did it take you to get to the hotel?"
Frowning, Buff tried to remember. He'd chatted with one of the wharf rats for a few minutes, then he'd strolled around town a while. "An hour? Perhaps two. I'm not sure. I believe I arrived here well after supper."
"You were seen going into the Chinese store." The man's tone was accusing, as if that in itself was a crime.
"I did. Members of the Chinese community are often founts of information." He steepled his fingers. "I am seeking word of a ship that may have gone down off Point Adams. You'll find that I also have visited the Portmaster's office and several of the bars, as well as talking to a number of long-time residents of your fair city." He watched Gillespie while the man made more notes. "May I inquire," he said when the officer looked up again, "why you are asking these questions?"
Gillespie looked from side to side, as if to assure himself there were no eavesdroppers. "I am not at liberty to divulge that information," he said, as if reciting something he'd been told. "Now then--" The pencil tip dabbed at his tongue again. "I'll want a list of who you spoke to between the dock and here. And what else you did." His tone made it clear he rather thought that whatever Buff's other activities had been, none of them were particularly wholesome or virtuous.
Buff gave as complete an account of his journey from the docks to the hotel as he could recall, then asked again why the officer needed the information.
"You'll be told what you need to know when...if we call you down to the station." Gillespie stood and stuffed his notebook into an inner pocket. "Just don't leave town until we finish our investigation."
Stung by the preemptory order, Buff said, "I've got business elsewhere."
"Don't leave town," Gillespie repeated. "Not 'til your name's cleared." He turned and stomped out the door, without a word of thanks for Buff's cooperation.
"He's not my favorite cousin," Carleen said from the doorway.
"I can see why. Any idea what's up?"
"Not a one. I'll go see his mother this evening. She'll tell me."
"I'm obliged." He grinned at Carleen. "Since I'm stuck here, I guess I'll go get better acquainted with the neighborhood."
She grinned back. "Try the Fisherman's Rest. There's no spiking of the drinks there."
"Thanks." He picked up his coat and hat and put them on. When he stepped outside he realized that, for the first time since coming to Astoria, he could see all the way to the top of the hill behind town. Trees still lifted their pointed tops to the sky up there, but the lower slopes had been logged off, leaving ugly scars, enormous piles of branches and debris, and stumps of remarkable size. Not far up the denuded hillside from where he stood, he saw one that had to be ten feet across.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh, fir-scented air, he started down the hill toward town.
To his surprise, the door of the Chinese store stood open. He stepped inside. "Good morning."
"Rain come morning," the tiny woman behind the counter said.
"Mrs. Leong, you can't fool me," Buff told her, with a grin. "I'll bet your English is as good as mine."
Her lips pursed, but she didn't say a word.
Having had experience with oriental inscrutability, Buff said, "I'd like a cup of tea. Keemun, if you have it."
She set the cup before him.
Buff carried it to the door, where he stood so he could see anyone passing by. "I haven't heard from Li Ching yet. Did you give him my message?"
"Li Ching very busy."
"Li Ching is always very busy. Tell him I bring greetings from Sung Su Mei and Silas Dewitt." Buff was pretty sure Li Ching would remember his name, but just in case.... He didn't want to stay in Astoria indefinitely. He sipped.
A steady stream of men walked past, heading toward the waterfront. The street was as busy this morning as it had been Friday night. Most of the men were dressed in heavy work clothing and wore the wool caps that marked them as fishermen. A few wore the heavy boots necessary for work in the sawmills.
A Chinese boy came running downhill, dodging among the white men. He slid past Buff and stopped, chattering at Mrs. Leong. She answered, her voice calm. The boy chattered some more, then laughed as she handed him a rice ball. Her smile was doting, proud.
"Your son?" Buff asked.
"Son of my son. Very good boy. Very smart. Works hard."
"Very smart, huh?" To the boy he said, "If you'll carry a message to Li Ching for me, I'll pay you a dollar."
Before the boy could answer, Mrs. Leong said, "No need! Li Ching not here now. Be back in three day. You wait."
"Why didn't you tell me that? I thought--"
"I tell you Li Ching very busy. You not listen."
Buff heard echoes of another Chinese woman's words and wondered why he had forgotten how oblique their reasoning could be. "No," he sighed," you're right. I heard your words, but I didn't listen to their meaning." He smiled down at the boy, whose disappointment showed plainly. "Here, youngster. You can tell me when Li Ching gets back to town, can't you?" He handed over a two-bit piece.
The boy took the coin after a quick glance at his grandmother, who nodded. With a flash of a smile, he was gone, dashing back up the hill as if it were level ground.
"A good boy," Buff said. "Handsome, too." He set the empty cup on the counter. "Thank you, Mrs. Leong. I'll expect to hear as soon as Li Ching returns." He made the statement not quite a question.
"Three days," she said, nodding. "Wind, rain come."
He wondered if she had a big toe that forecast the weather. His ma had insisted hers could. "Thanks. I'll be--"
A ruckus on the street caught his attention. Buff stepped out the door and looked down toward the Deep Six Saloon.
Men were erupting from the saloon and running up from the dock. He headed that way himself, curious. Fights on Sunday mornings, were, in his experience, rare. Most everybody was more interested in waiting out a hangover than starting a new drunk. He was close to the outer edge of the milling crowd when he heard the yell. A woman's voice. Oh, shit!
Deeper, louder cries drowned it out. Buff knew he was probably being a fool, but he pushed through the outer fringe, knowing he had no choice. If there was a woman in danger, he had to help, no matter why she'd got herself in a pickle.
The inner circle of men was, to his surprise, simply acting as a ring around the combatants.
Combatants? It looked to him like the man was doing his best to get away, while the woman was set on beating him to a pulp. She was clubbing him on the head and shoulders with a bent umbrella, all the while yelling imprecations in some foreign language.
"Du ljuger! You lie! Martine stal mina--" Her voice was drowned out by a cheer as she got in another good swat.
He decided to watch. I wonder who Martine is and what she stole. If the woman started losing the fight, he'd drag her away, but until then he'd mind his own business.
Apparently everyone else had decided to do the same. The men were calling encouragement to both of them, although he'd bet more of them were on her side than his.
The fellow ducked away from another blow. "No. She was alone when--"
"Du ljuger! Djävul, djävul," she cried as she followed him. The movement brought her around so Buff got his first good look at her face.
Siri! My God, it's Siri!
Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Du ljuger!," she cried again, giving her victim one last good whack. "Djävul," she whimpered, as she sank to her knees and let the ruined umbrella fall from her hands.
Amid catcalls and laughter, Buff went to her. Cautiously, because a woman could be as dangerous as a man in the right circumstances. "Siri," he said, softly. "Siri, It's me. Buff Lachlan."
She only drew in upon herself and settled lower onto the rutted street.
Without touching her, he looked around at the few men remaining close by. "Can somebody tell me what that was all about?"
"Hell, she's crazy!" one said.
"He was mindin' his own business and she come up and started yellin' at him," another added.
The big fellow Buff had bested on Friday night was on the porch of the saloon. Barney? Yes, Barney. "What do you know about this?" Buff called to him.
"Not much. Her kids went missing a while back and she's been lookin' for 'em ever since. She yelled something about him knowin' where they was before she started thrashin' him."
Children? She'd said she was a widow. She'd said nothing about children. Well, hell!
Carefully he slid his arms around her. She made no resistance. He might as well have been picking up a sack of grain. When he was on his feet, she lay perfectly slack in his arms. For her height, she was surprisingly light. No wonder her cheeks were hollow and her eyes shadowed. She was nothing but skin and bones.
He headed up Benton, the quickest route to the hotel. He'd crossed Wall and was finding the hill steeper than he remembered when she spoke.
"I can walk." Her voice was rough with swallowed tears.
"I'm doing fine. Why don't you relax and enjoy the ride?"
She pushed against his chest, tried to break free of his grasp. "Släpp mig! Put me down!"
Buff held on tighter. "Calm, down. I'm not going to hurt you. Unless you wiggle so much you make me fall. Then I'll probably land on top of you, and we'll both end up with broken bones."
She pulled back as far as she could go and stared at him. "You are joking?"
"Not a bit. You saw how sick I was last night. I'm still weak. Why, I can hardly hold onto you." He loosened his grip momentarily and made as to let her drop.
She gasped and grabbed his shoulders. "Nej!" Immediately she bit her lip, as if the word had snuck out while she wasn't watching.
"Then hold still."
Actually, Buff hadn't been entirely joking. He was feeling the effects of last night's illness. Now he was honor bound to carry her all the way home without staggering the last hundred feet. It wouldn't be easy. His knees were going rubbery and his arms ached. Good thing she's a skinny little thing. Last night took more out of me than I realized.
He kept silent the rest of the way, knowing if he spoke, his words would show just how hard he was working. No man worth his salt would let a chivalrous deed seem difficult.
It was a good thing he didn't have to climb the last ways to the front door. He'd never have made his legs raise him another half-block. At the back steps, he let Siri slide to her feet and took a deep, hopefully surreptitious breath. As her body slid along his, he noticed that, while she was skinny, she wasn't lacking in the soft flesh that made women so much different from men. So delightfully different.
He held her a moment longer than good manners allowed.
She clung to him a little longer than was necessary.
Chapter Six
So, he already has a woman, Jaeger observed, as he watched young Lachlan carry the virago away. But what a woman--homely, scrawny, and with a fishwife's temper.
This American was such a contradiction. He had money, although Jaeger had not discovered its source. He had polish, except when he visited the rough waterfront saloons he favored, when he shed his civilized manners and became one more drunken wastrel.
Lachlan had no difficulty attracting women. In Honolulu the ones Jaeger had seen him with had been beautiful, elegant, gracious. Never a saloon girl or, like this one, a hotel maid.
So was this the woman Lachlan sought? Jaeger doubted it. There was a resemblance, albeit a slight one, if the small painting he'd been provided was accurate. Perhaps it was due more to her coloring and the shape of her chin than anything else.
More likely Lachlan found this woman convenient. She could warm his bed at night, and make it in the morning.
* * *
Mr. Lachlan was a good man. Perhaps a true gentleman, such as she had read of in a book someone had left in the hotel. Mrs. Welkins had told her to throw it away. "No need to keep that. Men don't read romantic tripe," she'd said, when she looked at the title page.
Instead Siri had taken the book to her room and was reading it--the first book she had ever owned. She had little time for reading, and there was much of the story she didn't understand, for it contained many words she had never seen written and could not interpret.
Perhaps Mr. Lachlan...no, she would not ask him, for if he discovered the depths of her ignorance, he might have nothing to do with her. The captain had said that intelligent men admired women who were educated and skilled in the womanly arts.
He had not been forthcoming about what womanly arts he spoke of, except for embroidery and painting.
Siri would match her sewing skill against any woman's but she had never held a paintbrush.
On Wednesday she would tell Mr. Lachlan of her quest, and perhaps he might be willing to help her. More than once his gaze had been speculative. Yesterday, when he had set her down outside the kitchen, he had been aroused. She had felt his engorged lem when he let her slide along his body.
She must not let herself be distracted by a man, even one so attractive as Buffalo Lachlan. Unless he could help her...
She had not found her babies by asking the few people who might know where Martine had gone. She had no money to hire someone to search for them.
Siri had only one thing to trade, and if that was the price of finding her babies, she would give it willingly.
What would it be like to share the bed of a man who cared about her pleasure as well as his? The thought had never occurred to her when Valter was alive. Not until she listened to Carleen speak of some of the men whose beds she'd warmed.
Now Siri knew a woman could enjoy coupling--no, Carleen called it lovemaking, a term that spoke to Siri of gentle kisses and soft caresses, of sweet words and being held close and safe.
She forced herself to eat well, even though the food threatened to choke her. She was bony, and no man wanted a bony woman. Had not Valter told her so many times?
Perhaps she should fatten herself, so Mr. Lachlan would find her desirable.
* * *
After hearing what Carleen had discovered, Buff decided to visit the police station. He used his uncle's name shamelessly, and after a few minutes' wait, was led into the chief's office.
"Being under suspicion for a crime I wasn't aware I committed is a new experience for me," he told the chief, doing his best to sound both rueful and amused. "I don't claim to be an angel, but I've kept pretty close to the straight and narrow since I arrived."
"Officer Gillespie gets a bit heavy handed at times," the chief said. "His usual beat is the waterfront, and soft words don't go very far down there." He flipped through a stack of papers on his desk, pulled one out from about halfway down the stack.
As he read what was written, his eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened. Buff waited, wondering what the dickens he'd fallen into. Something beyond merely unsavory, it looked like.
The chief flipped to the second page, read farther, then looked up at Buff. "You're lucky. Old Henry says he kept an eye on you, followed you until you got to the hotel. You must have given him money?"
Buff shrugged. "He looked hungry and cold. I'm a soft touch." He didn't mention he had a habit of making the acquaintance of one or two wharf rats in any port where he intended to stay a while. They always knew where the honest games and the unwatered whiskey were to be found.
This wasn't the first time the practice had paid off.
"So I'm clear? Of what?"
"Not entirely. I'll ask you to stay around town for a few more days." The chief laid the
paper down. "Mainly because we may want to ask you more questions about the passengers and crew of the Chinese Duchess than because you're under suspicion for anything. Any objections?"
"No, not when you put it that way. Can you tell me what I was suspected of?"
"Murder. Or maybe three of them."
"Great God!"
"I won't pretend Astoria's not a rough town." The chief leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "It's a port, and we get the world's riffraff passing through. Or worse, hanging around because they reckon there's easy pickings here."
"Not much different from any port town I've seen," Buff agreed.
"No, you're right. Ordinarily I don't worry too much about killings down on the docks, because the dead are generally the sort we're well rid of anyhow. But these... Mr. Lachlan, I've been a lawman on and off for thirty years. I've never seen anything so...so vicious, so bestial, as these." He slapped his hand on the papers. "Two footpads--we knew them, were hoping to catch 'em in the act sometime so we could run 'em out of town. Well, they were bad men, but they didn't deserve to be gutted and left to die in the mud."
He shook his head. "That was bad enough. But the other...well, it just makes me sick to even think about it." He pushed a single sheet across the desk. "If you want to know, go ahead and read it. I can't. Not unless I have to."
It was a stark account of the discovery of a woman's body behind a warehouse, found the third morning after Buff's arrival. The last paragraph was a clinical description of the body. Buff read the first sentence, a few words into the second. "My God," he breathed, laying the paper back on the chief's desk. "How could anyone...?"
"Even a whore didn't deserve to be treated like that," the chief said. "The doc says she was alive through most of it."
"I'll tell you anything I can," Buff said. "Anything to catch the bastard who did this."
"Just tell us what you can about the passengers who got off with you. And any of the crew you got acquainted with." He heaved himself to his feet. "I'll tell you frankly, Lachlan. I don't have much hope we'll solve this one. Whoever did it is probably long gone."
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