Lucas spun about, not caring if he ruined his pants, and pressed his back against the door. He reached up in time to grab the doorknob as someone outside checked to see if it was locked. Lucas’s palm was sweaty, and hanging on to the knob caused a strain all the way up into his shoulder, but he hung on for dear life.
Muffled words came to him through the thick wood door.
“He didn’t go inside. The door’s locked. You idiots sure he didn’t get past you?”
“Aw, boss, nuthin’ got by us. You’re always bad-mouthin’ me and Relf and we about had the most of it.”
Lucas heard inarticulate shouts that faded. The four men walked out of the alley, going back toward the street. He gave a huge shudder, then laughed in relief. He pulled off his bowler hat and tossed it onto the floor in front of him. Eyes closed, he banged his head against the door a few times to convince himself he had survived. After swiping sweat from his forehead, he got his legs under him and stood. Finding his knees unusually shaky, he braced himself for a moment until the last vestiges of panic disappeared. He lived by his wits. Avoiding shoot-outs with irate ranchers was a far superior course of action than shooting it out.
When his hands no longer shook, he bent over and used his two steel strips to lock the door. He felt safer with the bolt once more thrown. Any of the men on his trail could break the door down with a single kick, but it gave him a sense of safety nonetheless.
False security could be more dangerous than none at all, but Lucas willingly accepted whatever flimsy ward against confrontation he could find.
He edged through the darkness and found shelves with supplies. Working more with his nimble fingers than sight, he rummaged through some of the boxes. Lucas recoiled when he touched something big and hairy in one. He held the box at arm’s length and moved to a doorway leading to a small office. Light from a gas lamp down the street filtered in to let him see what he had found.
He frowned as he held up a handful of hair. Instead of a scalp taken in battle, he held a theatrical wig. He had seen a fine production of The Tempest at the Broadway Theater with less expensive wigs. Poking through the box revealed tubes of theatrical makeup and things that would do Carmela Thompson proud. Sliding the box back onto a shelf, he looked around the storeroom, thinking he had broken into a theatrical agent’s office.
The contents of the other boxes puzzled him. He found envelopes filled with dust. Running some between his thumb and forefinger told him it was grainier than ordinary sand, but not enough to be specially marked. Tapping out some into his palm and holding it up showed no telltale glitter as he would expect from gold. Whoever ran this office seemed to keep worthless dust. The other boxes contained nothing more than office supplies and several different styles of shirts.
Lucas examined the clothing with a jaundiced eye. For every expensive shirt, there were two work shirts. Checked flannel more in keeping with a miner’s outfit was stuffed in with denim shirts he had seen worn by railroad workers. The one frilly-fronted starched dress shirt worthy of a high-society cotillion was two sizes too small for him. He left the clothing and other odds and ends and went into the main office.
Two desks almost filled the room to overflowing. A tall wooden file cabinet between them had a drawer partially opened. Lucas idly leafed through the files inside, not bothering to read any of them. Whatever went on here no longer interested him. He had spent enough time for the rancher and his hired hands to have retreated to a saloon to continue their bender. Or since dawn challenged the feeble gas lamps out in the street, they should be feeling hunger pangs and need breakfast. This was the situation Lucas found himself in.
A night of drinking, even moderately as he did, was no substitute for solid food. He went to the front door and tested the knob. It was securely locked. He pulled the slender steel strips out and began fiddling with the lock. More complicated than the back door, this lock finally yielded to his skill. He had apprenticed himself to a locksmith for almost eight months to get a steady income and a place to sleep as he gained experience gambling. This had worked out well for him on both counts. There were few locks he could not understand and open quickly. And he had learned odds and reading people over the long nights spent gambling.
The door opened and Lucas stepped out. He froze. Then he slowly backed into the office again and silently closed the door. When the rancher and his right-hand man marched past, Lucas sank down below the plate glass in the door. From this angle the rising sun caught gold letters and turned them into a flaming banner. He read backward.
GREAT WEST DETECTIVE AGENCY.
He had burgled the office of a detective. That explained the wig and the different styles of shirts. The operative fancied himself some kind of Allan Pinkerton, wearing disguises as he went about his investigation. From the simple furniture and sparsity of decorations, the detective—the Great West Detective Agency detective—wasn’t rolling in the money.
Like a prairie dog, Lucas popped up, looked around, saw his enemy, and sank back. The rancher was nothing if not persistent. Lucas fancied himself to have that trait, but he saw how it could be difficult for others to endure. He wished the rancher would give up and go home.
Legs pulled up, he put his head on his knees for just a moment, then came awake with a start. He had dozed off. From the look of the sunlight causing the lettering to form a banner of shadows across the far wall over the desk, he had been asleep for a half hour. Another quick look outside showed more people stirring now. Denver was waking and commerce began.
He saw nothing of the rancher or his three cowboys. Heaving a sigh, he opened the door and stepped out to take a deep breath. It felt good to be alive. He pulled the door shut behind him, then froze when a sharp command pinned him to the spot.
“Stop!”
He moved his hand to the bulge where his Colt was stashed. Lucas half turned, then forgot the pistol and instead concentrated on getting his clothing in as good order as possible. The woman rushing toward him had a most delightful bustle. Raven-wing dark hair had been tucked under a wide-brimmed hat more suitable for a day in the country than business in the city, but the rest of her outfit had cost a pretty penny. The fine material flowed about her, hinting at the outline of the well-curved corset beneath, the skirts whispered sweet nothings, and her petite shoes clicked rapidly against the cobblestones.
“Don’t go. I need to speak to you!”
Lucas made certain she spoke to him. He touched the brim of his bowler hat and bowed slightly.
“How may I be of service, miss?”
“Don’t close your office. Not yet.” She pouted. A strand of black hair like delicately spun midnight drifted across her bright blue eyes. She brushed it away without noticing she did so. Lowering her chin, she looked up at him. “Please. I need your expertise.”
Lucas silently pushed the door open and ushered her into the office. He grabbed a chair and held it for her. A hint of perfume caused his nostrils to expand in appreciation.
“Spikenard,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My perfume. Men always notice it. It is made from a plant found only in Nepal, in the Himalayas.”
“A very rare scent, to be sure. It fits you.”
“How do you mean?” She looked at him and batted her eyes, the long dark lashes moving seductively.
“A rare perfume for a woman of rare beauty.” He flashed her a smile that melted feminine hearts. She smiled almost shyly, but a sadness tinged the woman’s bow-shaped lips.
“I feared I would miss you when I saw you leaving.”
“For you, I will stay open around the clock.”
Lucas forced himself not to reach for his watch to check the time. The real detective and owner of the agency would show up anytime now. The streets showed the traffic expected in a thriving frontier town and the capital of a newly minted state. More riders went in the direction
of the capitol building than otherwise, but heavily laden wagons began the daily deliveries necessary to feed thirty thousand residents. So much activity meant any self-respecting businessman would be out and about in it to rustle up the most revenue possible.
“You are so kind. I am sure I am keeping you from very important work.”
“Not at all,” Lucas said. “How can I assist you?”
“Well, sir—”
“Lucas Stanton,” he said, immediately realizing it wasn’t smart to give her his real name. “Rather, you can call me that since, of course, I often use assumed names to solve my clients’ cases.” He had learned to stop yammering when he realized how badly he floundered with a lie. He did so now. He leaned back and made a gesture that he hoped kept her talking so he didn’t have to.
“I am Amanda Baldridge.” She sat primly, with her hands folded in her lap and eyes downcast.
“Miss Baldridge, I—”
“Please, call me Amanda. My needs are so . . . personal. Such familiarity—and may I call you Lucas?—puts me more at ease over a most disturbing matter.”
“Lucas is fine,” he said. “What is the nature of this problem?”
“He was kidnapped!”
Lucas sat up. He had not expected anything serious.
“A missing person is best dealt with by the Denver police. They have the manpower to conduct a real search.”
“I went to them immediately and a sergeant at the front desk was very rude to me. He laughed, then threatened to have me thrown out!”
Lucas understood a lawman wanting to wrap his arms around such a delightful package as presented by Amanda Baldridge. He frowned a little when he came to the quick conclusion there was more than the woman was telling.
“Who is this missing gentleman? How long has it been since the kidnapping?”
“Yesterday morning,” she said, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. For the life of him, Lucas saw no tears yet the woman sniffed and continued to brush her eyes, carefully avoiding any ruin to her makeup.
“Why don’t you give me the full details?”
“Are you going to write all this down?” She looked at the bare desk. Not even pen and ink marred the vast expanse of polished wood.
Lucas tapped the side of his head and smiled in encouragement. Amanda nodded in understanding.
“When I awoke yesterday morning, he was gone. He is always beside me in bed, under the covers.”
Lucas listened less to what she said now and concentrated more on her lovely features. Although she didn’t wear a wedding ring, that meant little in these modern times. What distressed him was the longing in her voice for her missing paramour.
“I thought he had gone outside for breakfast.”
“Outside?”
“If I haven’t prepared something special for him, he goes out to kill something. He’s so cute.”
“Your husband is cute when he is killing?”
Amanda looked up, startled. Then she smiled wanly and dabbed away some more nonexistent tears.
“He is not my husband, Lucas. I cannot imagine what you were thinking! He is my puppy. Tovarich is a Russian wolfhound.”
“Your dog?”
“My itty-bitty little puppy.”
“The police wouldn’t look for a lost dog?”
“That is right. It is so cruel of them, because Tovarich was stolen. He was spirited away by evil men. I just know it.”
“Was anything else stolen from your room?”
“No, nothing. Only Tovarich.”
Lucas refrained from asking if there was something special about the puppy. The love in Amanda’s voice almost approached reverence.
“Do you know anyone who would steal your dog?” He left it unsaid what men on the frontier would have taken rather than the dog if they had sneaked into her bedroom and found her asleep.
“No. I have driven myself quite crazy trying to imagine who might have stolen my puppy dog.”
Lucas held back his opinion that, no matter how lovely she was, Amanda was crazy as a bedbug. The dog had run off or, more likely, become the morning meal for a coyote or a pack of wolves. Although wild animals avoided Denver because of the influx of people, they also came to live off the garbage. Nosing through a pile of rotting meat from a slaughterhouse was easier than tracking down your own four-legged meal. And only the night before he had seen two rats which would prove a match for any small dog.
“Here is my address. It is a boardinghouse.”
She fumbled in her purse, found what she wanted, and passed over a scrap of paper with an address written on it in pencil.
“There might be a neighbor who saw a man or men with your Tovarich yesterday morning,” he said, not believing a word of it. Lucas tucked the paper into his vest pocket and stood. “I hate to be abrupt, Amanda, but I was on my way out.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she dabbed more at her eyes. All the while she studied him from head to toe.
“You are going undercover?”
It took Lucas an instant to realize how disheveled he was after his late-night escape from the rancher and his henchmen. His pants were torn in places, and his once elegant coat had been smudged in more places than he could count. A good cleaning would return it to respectability. And he ought to tend to that right away since he wanted to look sharp for Carmela Thompson’s debut that night.
He wanted to look sharp for Carmela. After too many brushes with her in the past, it was time to press his advantage for a lengthier encounter with a woman who didn’t sleep with her dog.
“Please don’t mention the way I look,” Lucas said, moving behind her and holding the chair as a hint for her to leave. “I sometimes adopt a disguise for the purpose of a case.”
“There won’t be any need to do so when you go to find the men who stole Tovarich.”
She preceded him to the door. “Will this be enough for a retainer?” She held out a wad of greenbacks large enough to choke a cow. “It’s only a hundred dollars. I can give you that much more when you recover Tovarich and return him to me.”
Startled by the large sum, Lucas instinctively held out his hand. Amanda dropped the greenbacks into it.
“I’m so happy you will take the case, Lucas. You must begin the search as soon as possible. I don’t want those thieves to take Tovarich to some faraway place where I will never see him again.”
“The case I intended to work on is quite pressing,” he said. He closed the door behind him and considered locking it. To do so without a key required him to use his lock picks. Amanda might believe he did this to show off. Instead he decided to leave the door open. There wasn’t much to steal in the office.
“I feel you are a dependable man, Lucas. You will do your best.” She cast a quick look at the door. “You and the Great West Detective Agency.”
She reached out shyly and put her hand on his arm, then turned away and hurried off. All he could see was the sway of her bustle. He took a couple steps, then stopped to look around the business district for any laundry where he might get his coat cleaned. Something about the man and woman coming toward him made him step to one side. His instinct was vindicated when they stopped in front of the agency door.
They were plainly dressed, nothing too expensive. But clean and neat. Lucas thought they might be wearing their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, but not knowing them better kept him from making this assumption. The man’s brown suit had been tailored to fit, though his shirt cuff peeking out was worn. He wore a string tie that did not match his coat, though the color difference was subtle. He might not even have noticed, but Lucas did. The man wore no jewelry other than a gold wedding band. He didn’t even sport a gold watch chain or fob.
The woman’s gray dress was similarly unembellished with even a broach or locket. Her hand moved restlessly, but Lucas caught th
e golden flash of a wedding ring that matched the man’s. Both were of a height a few inches shorter than Lucas’s own five foot ten. The man was beginning to sport a beer gut, but the woman was thin as a rail and likely as tough. She had that look about her.
The exact opposite attitude showed in her husband. Lucas had seen men bossed about by women before. There was no question who wore the pants in this family.
He touched the slip of paper with Amanda’s address and then the hundred dollars she had given him. He had no reason to look for a lost dog and one likely to have become a meal for a hungry predator, but honor required him to do something about her plight. Hiring the detectives from the agency satisfied his honor and possibly returned the dog to its owner. He started for the couple, then turned and pretended to watch a fight across the street.
“Not here yet. Where can he be, dear?”
“How should I know?”
The woman scowled. If a smile had ever graced her lips, she might have been attractive. Lucas would never classify her as more, not even pretty. Her angular features reminded him of a schoolteacher he had hated. Even the chopping motion made with her left hand was similar. But this was not Miss Draper. That harridan would be sixty now, and this woman wasn’t a day past thirty.
“It makes no sense, putting an ad in the newspaper for assistants and then not being here to interview us.”
“You’ll make a great detective with logic like that,” she said. The sarcasm flowed thicker than honey but nowhere near as sweet.
“How long should we wait for him, dear?”
“As long as it takes. This is the only job you’re qualified for.”
“And since there are two office positions open, we can work together.”
Lucas kept from laughing at the man’s tone. He mixed wistfulness with outrage. If his wife noticed, she made no comment about working together.
The Great West Detective Agency Page 3