No Pity For the Dead

by Nancy Herriman

  “I did suggest Mr. Bartlett was worth considering, did I not, Mr. Greaves?” she asked. “Yet why would he encourage Dan Matthews to dig in the cellar if he knew Mr. Nash’s body was there? I keep returning to that question.”

  He explained the theory he’d mentioned to Taylor—that Bartlett, if he was the murderer, got scared when he learned work on the cellar was planned. Who’d suspect the fellow who told his friend to dig around?

  “Mr. Bartlett also knows Eddie and could have asked him to deliver the note to Virgil,” Mrs. Davies said, finishing with the plasters and straightening. “But why arrange a meeting at the offices where you worked? Why not another, unrelated location?”

  “He figured Nash wouldn’t be suspicious. Remember, Nash thought the note had come from Martin. His office was a logical place to meet.”

  “And Mr. Nash had gone willingly, unsuspecting it was a trap,” she mused.

  “I’ve already asked Mullahey to bring Bartlett into the station,” he said. “We can have Miss Lehane come in to see if she can identify him.”

  “If we can find her in order to do so, Mr. Greaves.”

  * * *

  They agreed that while Mr. Greaves checked Burke’s Saloon, Celia would go to Katie’s boardinghouse.

  “She didn’t come home last night,” said the landlady, tall and broad of shoulder as so many of them seemed to be. Petiteness, Celia supposed, would not be a desirable characteristic if one wished to maintain discipline over a house full of young women. “Ought to toss that one out. Sneaking men up to her room in the evening, and she thinks I don’t know. I don’t run that sort of establishment. But what can you expect from a saloon girl?”

  “You are certain Katie did not return last evening?”

  “You can check her room if you don’t believe me.”

  “May I?” Celia asked, making the woman frown; obviously, she had not actually meant to allow Celia to visit Katie’s rooms.

  “Come on.”

  Celia followed the landlady up the steps to the topmost floor, the ceiling dipping low beneath the roofline, the air warm and stuffy. There were only three rooms up here where the rent would be a trifle higher than for the dark and noisy rooms overshadowed by the neighboring buildings. Celia did not care to consider where a girl who worked at Burke’s obtained the extra means.

  The trill of a woman’s singing echoed along the short hallway.

  The landlady glanced toward the sound, which was emanating from behind the closed door at the end. “That one’s always chirping a tune. She saw some Italian lady singing at the Academy of Music, and now she wants to be famous, too. When pigs fly and snails gallop is what I say.” Her keys jingled as she unlocked the door to Katie’s room. “See? Empty.”

  Celia could see that for herself as she stepped inside, the colorful quilt in place atop the bed, the blinds drawn, the room quiet and still and somehow larger without Katie’s vigorous personality to fill it. Dresses hung from nails pounded into the far wall, and Katie’s comb sat on the washstand next to the white enameled basin. Their presence led Celia to conclude the girl had not meant to leave for any length of time.

  “Did Katie mention to any of the other boarders that she did not intend to return to the boardinghouse last night?” she asked.

  “If she did, I ain’t heard,” said the woman, her gaze lighting upon a pretty Wedgwood blue shawl tossed over one of the two chairs Katie owned, a speculative look in her eyes. “If she doesn’t come back, I wonder what’ll happen to all her things.”

  “Katie will come back,” said Celia. She would not see another innocent woman die, as had happened the last time she and Mr. Greaves had worked on a case together. She simply would not. “I promise you.”

  “Is that so?” asked the landlady. “Well, tell her when you find her that she’s got until the end of the week to move all her stuff outta here. I’m gonna find a respectable girl to rent this room. One who doesn’t work in a saloon or bring men home.”

  Or long to sing in theaters?

  “I shall inform her,” Celia answered, sweeping past the woman and back into the hallway.

  “You do that!” the landlady shouted after her.

  Out on the sunlit street, Celia was greeted by the stink of sewage, a scattering of dust swirling over the cobbles that made her hold her breath, and the din of the blacksmith’s shop across the road. The saloon where a woman sang “Aura Lea” had yet to open.

  “Where are you, Katie?” she asked aloud once the gust of wind had subsided, the tiny lump of fear that had taken hold in her stomach turning into a full-fledged stone.

  * * *

  “Don’t know why you’re here, Detective. I haven’t done anything wrong,” said the owner of Burke’s, sneaking a look at Nick’s cuts and bruises. By this point, his face must be every color of the rainbow.

  “I have some questions for you,” said Nick, wishing his mouth didn’t hurt every time he opened it.

  “About the saloon?” They were out on the sidewalk, and Burke jabbed a thumb in the direction of the front door. “It’s closed. I know the law.”

  “I’m not here to see if you’re opening before seven, Mr. Burke,” said Nick, moving aside to let a shop boy wheeling a cart pass. “I’m here to ask about one of your girls. Katie Lehane.”

  “She was not dancing the other night. I know the rules about that, too, and I told the officer as much. Can’t you fellas believe a man?” Burke shook his head. “I’m gonna get rid of the girls. They’re just not worth all the trouble they bring. Men fighting over them. And police coming around, wondering what they’re up to.”

  Nick exhaled, which made him realize how much his ribs were hurting on top of everything else. When did Frank get to be such a good pugilist? “How about this? How about you just tell me if Katie came into work last night?”

  The saloonkeeper peered up at him. “That’s all you want to ask me about?”

  “That and if she seemed bothered. Left early, maybe?”

  “Didn’t seem bothered to me.” Burke cast a look toward the sky, where all memories were apparently located. “Not much, at least. Maybe a bit more quiet, and she didn’t sit with any of the men like she often does. She stayed until closing like usual. Walked home by herself like usual, too, because her place isn’t far from here.” His eyes widened as understanding finally dawned. “Has something happened to her?”

  “Did she mention anything about leaving town?” Nick asked.

  “I told her she should always walk home with one of the other girls or my barkeep,” said Burke. “You don’t think one of my customers had something to do with her disappearance, do you?”

  “I didn’t say she disappeared, Mr. Burke. So just answer my question.”

  “She didn’t say anything to me about leaving town. In fact, when she left last night, she said she’d see me tomorrow,” he said, wiping his palms down the apron tied around his waist. “Is she dead? Is that what’s happened, Officer?”

  “If you’re a praying man, Mr. Burke, I’d start now.”

  * * *

  Taylor was waiting for Nick inside the detectives’ office. Unfortunately, Briggs was in there, too, his heels up on his desk, a stance that showed off the worn spots on the bottoms of his boots. The crumbs from one of his molasses doughnuts littered a piece of brown paper, and he was licking his fingers with a smacking noise.

  When Briggs saw Nick entering the room, his brows jigged up his forehead, and he let out a long whistle. “Whooee, look at you, Greaves!”

  Taylor’s brows did likewise. “Sir?”

  Nick tossed his hat atop his desk and took a seat. “Frank Hutchinson lands a mean punch.”

  “Ha!” Briggs guffawed, and slapped his thigh. “Don’t that beat all!”

  “Did Mullahey bring Bartlett in, Taylor?” Nick asked, following his policy of ignoring Briggs whenever poss
ible.

  Taylor recovered from the shock of seeing his boss with plasters stuck to his face—wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last—and ceased to gawk. “Yep. He’s had a visit to the booking sergeant and is cooling his heels in our fine accommodations as we speak. As wrathy as thunder, though. Swears he had nothing to do with Nash’s death, and we can’t prove otherwise.”

  “They always say that,” said Briggs, trying to sound authoritative.

  “Dad blame it, I know that, Briggs!”

  Nick checked the clock hanging on the wall. Almost time for Mrs. Davies to show up. “I’m expecting Mrs. Davies, Taylor—”

  “Mr. Greaves,” she announced, abruptly appearing at the doorway like the dove a magician would conjure from an empty sack. She greeted Taylor and Briggs, who’d scrambled to his feet. At least the man knew how to show respect to a lady. “She did not return to her rooms last night. Did you speak with Mr. Burke?”

  Nick rose as well. “According to him, she came to work and left at her regular time, said she’d be at work today as usual.”

  Mrs. Davies twisted the straps of her reticule around her hand. Behind her in the main office of the station, one of the policemen was leaning over in his chair to get a better look at her. Nick really wished they’d learn to mind their own business.

  “Gad,” she said. “So she has disappeared.”

  “Is somebody missing, sir?” asked Taylor.

  “It seems so, Taylor,” said Nick. “Her name’s Katie Lehane. A witness who might be able to tie Rob Bartlett to Virgil Nash’s murder. Alert the men that we’re looking for a saloon girl—”

  “She has red hair and is very pretty,” added Mrs. Davies. “And was likely wearing an orange checked dress. It is her favorite, and I did not observe it hanging in her room.”

  “We’re looking for a girl who works at Burke’s Saloon matching that description,” Nick continued. “And put a notice in the newspapers looking for information on her whereabouts. Who knows? Maybe we’re concerned for no reason, and all she’s done is gotten scared and gone to stay with a friend for a day or two.”

  “She did not take any of her dresses or even her hair comb with her,” said Mrs. Davies. “A woman never goes anywhere for any length of time without her brush or comb.”

  So maybe Katie hadn’t gone to stay with a friend. “I’ll take your word on that, ma’am. Go on, Taylor.”

  “Want me to take care of this before I go talk to that Eddie kid?” he asked, rummaging through his coat to fetch out his notebook. “I was just headed over to Montgomery, but if this is more important—”

  “Yes. It’s more urgent we find her,” said Nick. “Shall I have one of the policemen see you home, Mrs. Davies?”

  “I’ll take you, ma’am,” Briggs offered, his eyes twinkling in a way Nick didn’t care for.

  “Thank you, but I shall be fine. It is not far,” she said, her eyes never leaving Nick’s face. “I merely want Katie found. That is all I am worried about.”

  “We’ll find her, ma’am,” he replied.

  But when they did, would she be alive . . . or dead?

  * * *

  “Okay, okay, Bartlett,” said Nick. “So you’re sticking with your story that you set Dan Matthews to digging in Martin’s cellar as a joke.”

  “It ain’t a story. It’s the truth.”

  Rob Bartlett was pacing his cell. It took about two seconds to shuffle through the filthy sawdust covering the stone floor before having to turn and go back in the other direction. At the end of the aisle, the warden rolled his eyes at Nick and lit a cigarette, which prompted one of the inmates to decry the injustice of being denied his own smokes.

  “And that you didn’t give him Nash’s watch and money as encouragement to leave town because you were the man he’d seen the night Nash was killed,” Nick continued, trying to get Bartlett as angry as possible.

  “I didn’t!” Bartlett shouted. He marched up to the iron grating separating him from Nick. “How many times have I got to tell you?”

  “And that Martin didn’t pay you to kill Nash,” persisted Nick. “Or that maybe your real name is Cuddy Pike.”

  “What? No!” he shouted, a spray of spittle hitting Nick’s chest. His face, however, didn’t turn any redder than any other fellow’s, even though he was riled. Not Cuddy Pike, then. He still could be a murderer, though. “My name’s Rob Bartlett, and if I’m gonna hang for Nash’s death, I sure wish Martin had paid me to do it. I woulda used the money to get out of town.”

  “But you did know Virgil Nash. From the Golden Hare,” said Nick, wishing he had something to wipe off Bartlett’s saliva other than his lone clean handkerchief. “What did you fellows do there?”

  “What do you think we do there? Play tiddlywinks?” asked Bartlett. “We gambled. And Nash won. So often he had to have been cheating. I told Dan to steer clear of Nash, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Did you lose a lot of money to Nash?”

  “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t!”

  Nick pulled in a deep breath and instantly regretted it, given how putrid the air was. Didn’t they ever clean the cells? As if the cockroaches scuttling through the sawdust didn’t answer that question.

  “I presume you’re also going to tell me that you’re not responsible for Katie Lehane’s disappearance,” said Nick.

  “Who?” Bartlett asked.

  “A redheaded girl who works at Burke’s.”

  “I don’t ever go to Burke’s. And I don’t know a Katie Lehane,” insisted Bartlett. “So if you’re also tryin’ to accuse me of making her disappear, then you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  He was barking up the wrong tree.

  And it made him furious.

  * * *

  Addie met Celia at the front door. “It’s that Mr. Smith. He is in the parlor.” She cast a glance in the direction of the room. “I told him to nae sit on the furniture, though. Grubby creature.”

  “He has come today?” How was it possible the man always managed to show up at the worst possible time?

  “Aye, ma’am,” said Addie. “Miss Grace left not long ago, by the by, and Miss Barbara is in her room.”

  “I am glad they are not around to hear, because I have dreadful news.” Celia removed her bonnet, and Addie took it from her. “Not only does it seem that the man who killed Virgil Nash’s brother is in San Francisco, but Katie Lehane has gone missing.”

  “Merciful heavens!”

  “Mr. Greaves has alerted the police force to search for her. I expect that is all that can be done for now.”

  “Poor lass. Poor, poor lass.”

  “We must hope that she has merely chosen to go into hiding.” Celia pressed her hands to her waist. “Wish me luck with Mr. Smith, Addie.”

  “He says he’s brought the proof about Mr. Davies.”

  “Which is why I would rather run back out the front door than speak with him.”

  “But you willna do such a thing.”

  “No.”

  Celia strode into the parlor, where Mr. Smith was examining the porcelain figurines and silver candlesticks on the mantel. He had failed to remove his bowler hat, which looked more battered than the last time she’d seen him wearing it, and the cuffs of his ill-fitting trousers were dusty. But despite his appearance, his services had come highly recommended, and if he had truly found proof of Patrick’s death, then he had earned all the money she had ever paid him.

  “Mr. Smith,” she said, causing him to guiltily spin to face her.

  “Ma’am.” He grabbed his hat and swept it off, making a bow that revealed the bald patch on the crown of his head.

  “You have returned rapidly from Mexico,” she said. “I received your telegram only yesterday.”

  “Sent that right before I hopped the steamer, ma’am.” His eyes darted a glance ar
ound at the parlor. They lingered on the portrait of Uncle Walford; Celia fancied her uncle’s painted grin slipped a trifle in response to Mr. Smith’s perusal. “Mighty fine place you got here.”

  “Yes, but you have not come to admire the furnishings.” She held out her hand. “My housekeeper tells me that you have brought with you the item that proves my husband is deceased.”

  He dug in his coat pocket and located a piece of paper that was nearly as grimy as the fingers holding it. “It’s a copy of a doctor’s certificate stating he attended to one Patrick Davies in his final hours, someplace in the city of Mazatlán. It’s in Spanish, but I went and got it translated. It says right here . . .” He unfolded the paper and pointed to a line at the top. “Nombre. That means ‘name’ and shows your husband’s name and that he was a seaman off a merchant ship and from California. And here . . .” His finger moved down. “Right next to Causas de la Muerte, it says he died from knife wounds. And this here’s the signature of the doc that attended to him. So it looks like he didn’t die when that boat went down but got killed in a saloon like I’d heard. Sorry, ma’am.”

  Hand shaking, Celia took the paper. It was dated 10 de agosto de 1866. The day Patrick’s soul had left this earth.

  “How could the attending physician be certain the man was my husband?” she asked, unready to believe what her eyes showed her.

  “I’d guess one of his friends told the doctor who he was. Oh, and I got this, too.” Back into his pocket went his hand, and he pulled out a square of linen. He unfolded it slightly, trying to hide the rusty brown stains, but it was enough that she could see the “P D” embroidered in emerald green thread on one corner. “I was wonderin’ if you might recognize it.”

  The death certificate was forgotten. For in Mr. Smith’s fist was all the proof she would ever require that the man who had perished in a knife fight in Mexico had been Patrick. “I do. I gave it to my husband as a wedding present.”