by Rue Allyn
CHAPTER TWO
San Francisco docks, the following night
Trouble stood within a pool of lantern light. The night was chilly and unusually clear. Dutch tugged down on the knitted black cap that covered his blond hair. One gleam of moonlight on his head would blow the entire mission. Satisfied the cap was secure he peered through an open porthole into the wheelhouse of the steamship Arrowhead where evil incarnate threatened a young Chinese man.
“I don’t think you understand, Yat Hwah, I’m changing the terms of the agreement.”
The speaker, an elegant woman with café au lait skin, stood halfway across the room and pointed a derringer at the slim man seated behind a chart table.
Cerise Duval. Dutch broke into a sweat despite the chill air. Not good. Not good at all. The information wrestled from the porter the previous day proved accurate. The Chinaman — San Francisco’s strongest Tong boss — duped Chinese women into paying him for transportation from China to their families or husbands in California then sold the women into prostitution, thus profiting on both ends of the deal. The latest shipment came in tonight and was supposed to be off-loaded just before dawn. With that knowledge, Dutch had expected to find someone in charge almost as depraved as Duval. She was exactly the type to purchase new flesh to peddle. The only surprise was that San Francisco’s most notorious madam, his personal nemesis, would do her dirty work herself. He shuddered recalling a time, years ago, when all she had to do was raise a brow at his blue-eyed innocence and he’d do her bidding from sheer terror.
But he was no longer a frightened youth to be manipulated by threats. He’d developed very strong standards of behavior and would not put them aside lightly.
Duval’s moral compass pointed directly to instant gratification of her every desire, and she visited painful vengeance on any who opposed her. Unlike that Mrs. Smithfeld yesterday, who had denied herself an escort in a strange place to maintain her principles of proper behavior. Odds were his veiled lady was honest and chaste — wouldn’t be caught dead in a bordello, if she even knew what one was. She was exactly the kind of woman he needed to cement his respectable reputation and put the past permanently in the past. He gave himself a mental shake. Stay focused. She occupies your mind too much. Stop thinking of her as yours; stop thinking of her at all. She’s married to someone else — the lucky dog.
“Our arrangement cannot be changed.” The carefully clipped words signaled the seated man’s anger. “The merchandise waits in the forward hold to be unloaded. Our other clients expect delivery in full tonight.”
Dutch grinned. Confirmation that the cargo was still on board was a bonus and would make rescuing the captives easier.
His brother, Trey, and their partner, Smiley, would get the women off the ship. Dutch’s job was to make sure the smugglers didn’t interfere.
“I’m your primary client, and I haven’t taken delivery yet, so negotiations are still open,” murmured Duval.
She stood at a sharp angle to Dutch’s line of sight. Her unmistakable honey on steel tones populated his worst nightmares. The ones of his boyhood spent doing her depraved bidding. Gorge climbed in his throat, but he swallowed it back along with the memory of sexual acts and worse that no child — and he had been a child at the start — should have to perform. Too much of his youth had been endured as her personal toy until murder and Father Lucas Conroy allowed Dutch to escape.
His desertion blotted her reputation as a dangerous woman, and she’d made it her mission to cause him trouble. He’d succeeded in achieving a respectable life despite her machinations. Now here he was, braving her wrath again.
“My master must approve any change,” protested the slim Chinese.
“We don’t have time for that. Either you agree to give me three more girls of my choice or I’ll kill you where you sit and take them all. Then the Chinaman will lose all of his merchandise and his most trusted aide.”
Dutch sucked in a silent breath. Guaranteed, anything that involved Duval would be shady at best, but Cerise hooking up with San Francisco’s the powerful Tong boss was just plain bad news.
“You may not take any of the children.”
Dutch’s knot of nausea shredded in the face of rock solid determination. She won’t do to any other child what she did to me.
“I’ll take what I want. Some of my customers prefer young girls, even if they are Chinese.”
“My master will not be pleased.”
“I don’t give a damn if the Chinaman is pleased or not, get the keys to that hold. I want to take my new whores out of here before Father Conroy and his vigilante pals get wind of tonight’s activities.”
“Do not worry about the vigilantes; my master has arranged a distraction.”
So that’s why Father Conroy sent me the message that he wouldn’t be able to assist with tonight’s rescue. The vigilante leader was nearly as savvy as the Chinaman, but the priest couldn’t be in two places at once. Father Lucas was the one person willing to take in a gutter born youth and his brother, showing Dutch the way out of Duval’s grasp and the Barbary Coast. More than history, they shared an interest in destroying the flesh trade. But now was no time to wonder what distraction kept the priest and his committee busy. Dutch needed to make sure that Trey and Smiley had rescued the women.
“Count on the Chinaman to think of almost everything. Now get that key.” Duval issued a throaty chuckle and gestured with the derringer.
Dutch shifted his head, looking toward the opening of the forward hold.
Three dark figures climbed out then huddled aside. Concern clenched his jaw. That’s not enough. Retrieving the women is taking too long. We’re going to get caught. He had to stop Duval and her cohort.
From inside the wheelhouse he heard a drawer open and close. The scrape of a chair against the deck followed.
He backed through the shadows toward the hold. He could do nothing to hurry the rescue along, but he could delay Duval and the Chinese man. Halting behind one of the stacks of crates littering the deck, Dutch drew his pistol and kept his eyes trained on the wheelhouse. Hiding his tall frame and nearly too wide shoulders behind the column of skinny boxes wasn’t easy, but he managed.
The door opened.
Lantern light preceded the two flesh peddlers.
The shadows around Dutch deepened. He took careful aim. Shoot straight. Don’t set the ship ablaze. Just put out the flame.
With his target scant feet away, he fired.
The light doused. From behind him, female screams followed the gunshot and the crack of breaking glass.
“Dang it, no. Not that way!” Trey’s voice cursed in the dark.
“I’ve got mine on the gangway,” shouted Smiley.
Dutch grinned. His partner always knew which way to go.
“Damn it, Yat Hwah; they’re escaping. Get another light. We have to catch them.” Furious was a good word for Duval’s tone.
Dutch prayed that shooting out the light would give Trey enough time to round up the last of the women and get them off the ship.
“Gotcha.” Trey sounded too close.
A woman howled a rapid spate of angry Chinese.
“Owww! Goldurnit, one of ’em bit me.” Trey swore.
To head off Duval and her Chinese friend, Dutch moved toward his brother’s voice. He nearly tripped over three Chinese women huddled in mid-deck.
Trey knelt on their far side, shoving at them to get them up and moving.
A beam of light swept over the group.
“After them,” shouted Duval.
The trio of women split. Two scampered for the gangway. The smallest scuttled for the shelter of the crates Dutch had just left.
“Go with them,” Dutch pointed his brother in the direction of the two disappearing down the gangway. “I’ll get the other one.”
>
Trey scrambled after the pair.
Dutch spun toward the crate.
“I am afraid I must disappoint you.” The slim Chinese man held the sobbing captive in front of him, a wicked dagger pressed to her throat. The re-lit lantern rested on the deck.
“You kill her; I kill you,” Dutch threatened, aiming his pistol at the man.
The fellow smiled. “I do not believe you.”
“You’re right, Yat Hwah. Mr. Trahern would only kill you as a last resort.” Cerise Duval stepped into view around the corner of the crate. She placed her derringer at the Chinese man’s temple. “However, I won’t hesitate. Drop the knife.”
Dutch froze, uncertain what Cerise intended.
“But your interests are mine.” Shock and fear tightened Yat Hwah’s voice. The dagger clattered to the deck.
“Not when you lost most of my merchandise.” She smiled as if discovering a small, unexpected gift. “Besides, if you’re dead you can’t tell the Chinaman that I intended to double-cross him, and I can blame this entire debacle on Mr. Trahern and his brother.”
For a small gun, at close range, the derringer’s report was plenty loud.
Bits of skull and brain spattered from the side of Yat Hwah’s head.
The Chinese woman fell to the deck in a faint.
“Damn. She’s on top of the knife.” Cerise Duval trod on the corpse of her former compatriot and used her foot to shove at the woman.
Dutch leapt forward. He smacked the butt end of his pistol against Duval’s temple. She crumpled to the deck. Though it pained him to hurt a woman, any woman, Duval was too much of a threat. A small part of him rejoiced at, for once, giving the procuress her due. He stared at her still form. Lucky for me that girl’s on top of the blade, or I’d be dead. Duval taught me everything I know about knife work. Had she touched that dagger, I wouldn’t have had a chance even with a loaded pistol.
“Jeez, Dutch, what’d you do, kill them both?” Trey was breathing hard.
“Took you long enough to get back here.” Numb, he stared at the gore caused by Cerise Duval.
“I had to chase those two women half way to Nob Hill before I could catch them and calm them down.”
“Are they safe?”
“Smiley’s got nine of them in the wagon ready to head for the mission. The nuns will discover if any of the women have family and reunite them.”
“The tenth one is right there.” Dutch pointed at the tiny Chinese woman who started to stir. “Better get her out of here. I’ll clean up this mess.”
Trey bent to take the woman in his arms.
“No!”
Startled by her shout in English, Dutch and Trey both leapt back.
The dagger gleamed in her hand. She jabbed it in Trey’s direction. “Tsung stay.”
“What now, Dutch?”
“Beats me.” He scratched his forehead. “You can’t stay, Miss. Don’t you want to find your family, or get a job?”
“I stay with Mista Dutch. He make gift of life to me. I take care of Mista Dutch until I give equal gift. Find family later.”
Trey looked at Dutch, then back at the knife-wielding woman. “Oh boy, are you in trouble.”
“Not half as much as I was a minute ago. Take Duval. Get her into a rickshaw and pay the driver to take her to her place in Morton Street then relieve Smiley. He needs to get home to his wife. They’re leaving tomorrow to visit her folks.”
“Right. What will you do?”
“Clean up this mess and try to get the lady with the knife to the wagon. If I don’t succeed by the time you get there, leave without me.”
“No go!” Eyes narrowed and jaw set, the tiny woman still brandished the dagger.
“Suit yourself.” Dutch moved around her. He figured he had time to deal with her, since she claimed she wanted to stay with him. First, he needed to get rid of the dead man and clean the deck before the blood set and gave proof of the crimes committed here tonight.
He hefted the corpse, carried it to the ship’s rail, and dumped the body over the side. He wouldn’t have bothered if he’d thought he could prove that Duval had committed the murder, but as always, she’d been clever. As easily as he could claim the madam had done murder, she could claim she defended the Chinese woman from the dead man and Dutch. Knowing Duval’s connections within the city, he wouldn’t bet a plug nickel that he could prove his claim over hers.
With both Duval and the Chinaman to worry about, he didn’t need San Francisco’s excuse for a justice system investigating him for murder. So the clean up was essential.
He moved away from the rail and went looking for a mop, scrub brush, and bucket. The last place he expected to find them was in possession of the tiny Chinese woman.
She was on her hands and knees scouring the blood and bits of brain from the deck.
“Well, I’ll be a plucked duck.”
“I finish soon. You wait.”
“You speak English pretty well.” He blinked but shouldn’t have been surprised. Many Chinese learned English. They saw it as good business.
She continued to scrub. “Speak good English. For Mista Dutch, I clean good. For Mista Dutch, I wash good. For Mista Dutch, I cook too. Serve Mista Dutch. Take good care Mista Dutch, all time.”
He hunkered beside the woman. “You don’t understand. I want to make sure you don’t have to serve anyone. You can work for a living.”
She stopped scrubbing, raised the lantern, and studied the area where the corpse had fallen, then she nodded. “Clean, now. No blood. No brains.”
Dutch lifted the bucket and sluiced the remaining water across the newly scrubbed deck. “Thank you.”
“No, Tsung thank you. You give gift of miserable life. Only fair Tsung give equal gift. I stay with you until I do that.”
Dutch studied the tiny woman. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now we need to leave.”
“Yes, leave here. No leave Mista Dutch. Tsung stay.”
Suddenly weary, Dutch didn’t argue. He extracted a paper wrapped square of chocolate from his coat pocket and popped the treat into his mouth. First Mrs. Smithfeld, then Cerise, and now Tsung Tsang. Why was he suddenly plagued by obstinate women?
CHAPTER THREE
San Francisco, two days later
Staring through her veil at the elegant house that fronted Morton Street, Edith sat in an odd looking chair perched between two huge wheels. The coolie who operated the rickshaw stood patiently between the two shafts that extended from the axle and were used to pull the chair along streets too narrow and steep for a carriage.
“You are certain that this is Madame Duval’s establishment?” Edith wasn’t sure what she imagined a brothel would look like, but this house, which could have graced the most stylish districts of Boston, wasn’t it. From carefully curtained windows to the well manicured flowers bordering the broad walkway leading to the front stairs and entry, the place appeared far too respectable.
“Yes, yes,” the coolie looked around. “This Missee Duval place.”
Edith searched her surroundings. She saw nothing save a ragged boy rolling a hoop and the closed doors of other houses, but still she hesitated. What was she waiting for? Nothing would change unless she entered that house and carried out her plan. Without that, her middle sister Kiera would remain a fugitive. To save her sister, Edith had risked the journey to San Francisco. At the back of her mind was the faint hope that with all three sisters united in their demand for change, Grandfather would modify the will. If Grandfather died without waking from the coma caused by a carriage accident and before Kiera returned home, his absurd will would become reality, leaving all three sisters destitute. Edith could not back out now. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Please see if Madame Duval is at home to visitors.”
The coolie stared at her, uncomprehending.
“I want to talk to Madame Duval,” Edith enunciated. “Go ask if she’s home.”
A broad grin broke out on the coolie’s face. “Yes, yes, Lady. I get Missee Duval.”
He walked to the door, knocked then held a short conversation with the servant who appeared in the open doorway.
Lifting her veil, Edith mopped her brow with her handkerchief. She’d arrived in San Francisco and survived a harrowing experience at the depot thanks to the charming Mr. Trahern. For the past few nights she huddled in the chill of her rooming house with her flimsy door bolted as the landlady advised. “Frisco ain’t like back east,” the woman had said around the tobacco she chewed. “Woman’s gotta look out for herself.”
Which was precisely what Edith planned on doing: looking out for herself and her sisters. Yesterday’s trip to the constable’s offices proved that she would discover nothing more from the authorities regarding Kiera or the accusations of murder attached to her name. A visit the day before to the newspaper offices produced little that Edith didn’t already know from the news articles and letters she found in Grandfather’s desk. His callous plans to seal a business arrangement by marrying Kiera to an associate known to beat women had driven Kiera from the only home she’d ever known. That Grandfather had known where Kiera was, the alias she used, and never told Edith or Mae infuriated them both.
Even worse he’d ordered the detectives hired to follow Kiera not to interfere in anyway, not even when the madam of a bordello accused Kiera of murder. He’d left her defenseless, the unforgiving old wretch. With Mae’s consent, Edith had taken the opportunity offered by the coma he suffered and gone in search of their missing sister.