Rebecca Hagan Lee

by A Wanted Man

  Julie nodded.

  “Should I send a note to her at Wu’s laundry asking her to come here?” Jack asked. “Or should I send a runner to fetch her?”

  “She cannot read,” Julie explained. “And today is Wednesday, so Zhing is out collecting laundry.” She glanced at the mantel clock. “She should be making her way to the boardinghouses along Jackson Street about now, and from there she’ll go back to Wu’s. If you have a runner you trust, send him to Wu’s and tell him to ask Zhing if she would be willing to make a most profitable collection at the Silken Angel Saloon for Jie Li. Ask her to come as soon as possible.” She described Zhing Wu to Jack. “Please ask your runner not to frighten her.”

  “Of course.” Jack promised. He already had the man in mind for the job—one of the Denver Pinkertons currently standing guard downstairs, a young man named Seth Hammond whom his brother, Murphy, had recommended as smart, dedicated, and trustworthy. “Will you be all right by yourself while I go downstairs and make the arrangements?”

  Julie glanced around the room, gauging the distances she would have to negotiate to reach the necessary and the washroom and the sitting area. “Yes.”

  “Can I trust you not to try to leave or to damage anything while I’m gone?”

  Julie was surprised. “I wouldn’t dream of repaying your kindness or Will’s kindnesses by damaging any more of his property. And even if I did”—she gave him a self-deprecating shrug—“I don’t have a parasol, and I’m in no condition to swing one.”

  “No insult intended,” Jack told her, “but I’m to look out for you when Will’s gone, and I can’t be in two places at once. Nobody else knows you’re up here, and Will would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

  Julie did her best not to sound too eager, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity where Will Keegan was concerned. She wanted to know everything about him. “Why do you say that, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “My name is Jack, remember, and I said it because it’s true. Will didn’t go to all the trouble and expense to help you and keep you safe just to have me allow you to slip out and come to more harm.” Jack pinned her with a hard look.

  “I gave you my word.”

  “You gave Will your word you wouldn’t come back here singing and smashing, and now we’re missing the front plate-glass window.” Jack hadn’t meant to be accusatory, but the words were out before he could stop them.

  Julie knew what he said was true, but having Jack bring it up again when she was confined to bed and unable to do anything about it stung. “I promised to pay for the window,” Julie reminded him. “And I will. The money I hid should be enough. I can pay Zhing and the doctor, and reimburse Will for the window.”

  Jack raked his fingers through his hair, frustrated by her lack of understanding of the larger scope of the danger all around them. “And the team of men we’ve had to hire to guard the place around the clock until the new window is installed? Are you going to pay for them, too?”

  “What?”

  She looked so stricken, Jack swore beneath his breath at his uncharacteristic bluntness and lack of manners, and immediately began to apologize. “Forgive me for being rude and tactless. I’m afraid my exhaustion is showing.” He gave her a half smile. “There’s no need for you to worry about anything. Will can well afford the window, the doctor, the Pi—the guards, and anything else that might come up.” He paused. “I’m usually the soul of discretion, but you need to understand that this thing with Li Toy and her hired policeman isn’t only about you. You may be her primary target at the moment, but you aren’t the only one. And Will has been so concerned with protecting you, taking care of you, that he’s let down his guard. He’s not looking out for himself.”

  “He’s a member of the San Francisco Saloon and Bordello Owners’ Association,” Julie said. “He and Li Toy are associates. Why does he need to be on his guard?”

  Jack shot her a disgusted look. “And here I thought you were a clever girl. . . .” He clucked his tongue. “Haven’t you ever heard the old saying, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?”

  “Is that what he’s doing?” Julie asked.

  Jack sighed. “You figure it out. I’ve said too much already.”

  “You’re a good friend to him,” Julie said softly.

  “I try to be,” Jack said. “But I’m afraid I’m bungling it badly right now, and I’d prefer not to have anything—especially a young woman—damage our friendship. We’ve known each other too long and too well for that.”

  “How long?” Julie asked.

  She expected him to say he and Will were lifelong friends, so she was a bit taken back at Jack’s answer. “Since he hired me. Four years ago.” Opening the bedroom door, Jack set the breakfast tray on the floor in the hall outside to collect on his way out. When he finished, he filled the washbasin with water and laid out soap, face cloth, and towels for her. “In case you need it before the doctor arrives.”

  “I didn’t realize the Silken Angel Saloon had been here four years.”

  “It hasn’t,” Jack told her. “I worked with Will at his previous venture. I came with him when he opened the Silken Angel.” He opened the bedroom door. “Now I need to return to work before he fires me.”

  “What about Zhing?”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Jack told her. “I’m sending word to Will. He’ll go get her.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “No pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of truth.”

  —FRANCIS BACON, 1561–1626

  Will left his meeting with Peter Malcolm at Craig Capital and made his way to the Russ House Hotel to collect Julie’s belongings from her room.

  He arrived to find the youngest and most impressive of the Pinkerton detectives sitting in the lobby. He felt a jolt of dread as his senses went on immediate alert. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine, Mr. Keegan,” the young Pinkerton who identified himself as Seth Hammond assured him. “Mr. O’Brien sent me with this.” Hammond handed over a room key with the number six painted on the tag. The key was tied to a woman’s yellow hair ribbon—a ribbon stained brown in places with blood. Will recognized it as the one Julie had worn around her neck. Hammond handed Will a second key with the number eight painted on the tag. “He asked me to give you this as well and tell you that the person who occupied that room hid money in the post of the headboard. That person would also like you to find a laundry girl named Zhing who works at Wu’s Gum Saan Laundry and send her to collect the laundry at your saloon.”

  Will understood what Jack was telling him. Julie wanted him to collect her belongings and money from Jane Burke’s room, and then she wanted him to find her friend Zhing Wu. “Thank you, Mr. Hammond.”

  “Mr. O’Brien told me to stay and help you.”

  Will stared at the earnest young detective. “Do you speak Cantonese?”

  “No, sir,” Hammond told him. “Spanish, a little Swedish, and some French.”

  Will lifted an eyebrow.

  “My grandmother is Swedish.”

  Will smiled at the detective. “I speak a little Gaelic, courtesy of my mother’s mother. She lived with us when I was small.” She hadn’t left Londonderry with the rest of the family. The journey to Hong Kong had been too much for her. She’d stayed behind and moved in with her other daughter while Will and his two older sisters, Molly and Colleen, set off for Hong Kong with his parents, Francis and Constance Grace Keegan, for a new life as missionaries and teachers. Will surprised himself; he didn’t usually volunteer information about his childhood to strangers. His only excuse was that he was tired, and everything about young Hammond shouted that he was trustworthy. Jack obviously thought so or he wouldn’t have sent him with a verbal message, and Jack was a very good judge of character—every bit as good as Will was. “You don’t speak Cantonese, so that means I should be the one to pay a visit to the Chinese laundry.”

  “I’ll go with yo
u, sir, if you don’t mind,” Hammond said.

  So that was how it was. Jack had sent Seth Hammond to watch his back.

  “There’s not much call for Swedish in a Chinese laundry,” Will said, a hint of humor in his voice. “But we could encounter a lumberjack or two with an ax to grind along the way, and if that’s the case, I’ll be glad to have you by my side.”

  Hammond laughed. “You won’t regret it, sir.”

  Will met his gaze. “I don’t suppose I will. But before we go in search of the laundry, we need to collect a few personal items from room number eight.”

  Will nodded at the clerk on duty as he and Hammond passed the registration desk, heading up the stairs to the second floor.

  “Mr. Keegan?” the clerk called out. “Are you looking for a room?”

  Will had business with the management of the hotel, but he preferred to wait a few days before tackling those issues, so he simply shook his head and continued up the stairs. “Visiting a friend.”

  Hammond shot him a speculative look.

  Will shrugged. “Visiting the room of a friend,” he clarified out of earshot of the desk clerk. Having stayed at the Russ House many times, Will was quite familiar with the layout of the hotel. Turning right at the landing, he made his way to room six and inserted the key.

  The door swung open, and he and Hammond stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind them. The room was a shambles. Will had seen the damage done to Julia Jane, so he knew she’d fought hard for her life, but seeing her room this way—the coverlet pulled off the bed, pillows and her ugly missionary bonnet tossed on the floor, armoire door standing open, several ladies’ gowns hanging inside it, dresser drawers opened, and her undergarments, stockings, and nightgowns strewn about the room. Bloodstains dotted the coverlet and rug; a smear of blood marked the wall by the door. A box of pastries lay upside down on the chest at the foot of the bed.

  Will picked a stocking off the footboard, noted the embroidery, and tightened his fist around the delicate silk fabric before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

  The first thing Seth Hammond decided upon seeing the room was that it didn’t belong to a man. His second impression was that something bad had happened to the lady who had occupied it. He took a step forward and kicked a tin lying on the floor. Bending to pick it up, Hammond was surprised to find it contained two pounds of Ghirardelli chocolates. There was a small dent in the lid. Straightening, he showed the tin to Will.

  Will traced the dent with his finger. “That must have hurt.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your friend?”

  Recognizing the look of astonishment on Hammond’s face, Will replied, “Injured, but alive and safe.”

  Scanning the room once again, Hammond nodded. “Must have a guardian angel.”

  “I believe so, Mr. Hammond,” Will told him. Retrieving Julie’s suitcase from where it had fallen to the floor in the struggle, he began stuffing nightclothes and undergarments into it, topping it with three dresses he removed from hangers and folded.

  Seeing Will’s intent, Hammond picked a bonnet up off the floor and placed it in a hatbox he recovered from where it had rolled beneath the dresser. Inside the hatbox was a knotted black stocking. Lifting it, Detective Hammond heard the clink of loose coins. He unknotted it and saw that the stocking contained a good bit of money in coins. Whatever the motive had been for what took place in this room, it hadn’t been robbery. No self-respecting robber would have left a stocking full of coins behind, or the silver-backed brush, comb, and mirror on the dressing table. Hammond dropped the stocking back in the hatbox with the bonnet.

  Will picked up the brush, comb, and mirror along with a box of hairpins and finished packing, then closed and fastened the case. Ready to leave, he lifted the suitcase and started toward the door. “Let’s check room eight.”

  Leaving room six, Will and Hammond walked down the hall and unlocked the door to room eight. They crossed the threshold and closed the door behind them. Scanning the room, they saw a pile of petticoats in the middle of the floor that looked as if the wearer had stepped out of them and left them where they lay. Looking closer, Will could see smears of blood on the waistband that confirmed what Julie had told him: She had managed to get into Jane’s room and change into her laundry girl disguise.

  Other than the petticoats and a few displaced items on the dresser, the room was untouched by the violence that had taken place next door. Julie’s dresses were hanging in the armoire, and everything seemed to be the way she had left it, right down to the tin of chocolates on the dresser. “Jane’s room is safe.”

  Hammond raised an eyebrow in query.

  “My friend rented this room for her cousin,” Will explained.

  “Somebody changed clothes, but it doesn’t look like anyone slept here.” Hammond studied the bed.

  “No,” Will agreed. “My friend’s cousin left with her. They are staying together where they’ll both be safe.” He felt a twinge of guilt for lying to the young Pinkerton, but Will felt that the fewer people who knew where Julie was, the better.

  “I guess the cousin needs her clothes as well.” Hammond gestured toward the armoire.

  Will nodded, and the two men began gathering more gowns and stuffing them into a satchel. When they finished, Hammond gathered the luggage and turned toward the door.

  “Wait.” Will tapped the pole of the headboard closest to him, frowned, then walked around the bed and tapped the other pole. One was hollow. One wasn’t.

  Hammond paused, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Let’s not forget the hidden money.” Prying the cap off the second pole, Will reached inside it, grabbed a ribbon, and pulled a cylindrical leather case out of the pole. He opened the case, saw that it was stuffed with cash, then closed it.

  Will handed the satchel and the suitcase he’d packed to Hammond, then took the leather parasol case and the hatbox in hand. “We’ll carry what we can to a cab I have waiting out front and send a bellboy for the rest.”

  Glancing around the room one last time, Will spotted the Ghirardelli chocolates on the dresser. Thinking Julie might want to keep them as a souvenir if nothing else, Will scooped up the tin, cradled it in his arm, and opened the door, Hammond on his heels.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  Will stood framed in the doorway, waiting for the hotel manager to demand to know what he and Hammond were doing in Jane Burke’s room. But he saw that the hotel manager had someone else by the arm. “What do you think you’re doing in the hotel?”

  “Laundry girl,” Will heard the girl say. “I come for missy’s laundry.”

  “What missy is that?” The manager jerked the laundry girl away from Julia Jane’s door and spun her around.

  Hammond took a step forward to put an end to the hotel manager’s manhandling of the girl. Will stopped him with a shake of his head “Not yet.”

  “Missy room six,” the laundry girl answered, her voice rising in direct response to the grip the hotel manager had on her arm. He was a big barrel-chested man more than twice her size. He sported muttonchop whiskers and was dressed in a suit that befitted his position in the hotel. Beneath his suit coat he wore a white dress shirt and maroon tie held in place by a gold tiepin. Over his shirt and tie was a brocade waistcoat that did nothing to disguise his big belly.

  He looked the epitome of a prosperous businessman. And a bully.

  “You were warned,” the manager told her. “This hotel has a ‘no Celestials’ policy. Now I’m sending for the police.”

  Will stepped forward into the hall. “Mr. Palmer, what’s the meaning of this?”

  Palmer, his face florid, wheezing with exertion, turned and saw Will standing in the hall in front of room number eight. “Mr. Keegan, how nice to see you again! I wasn’t aware that you were staying with us.”

  “I’m not,” Will told him. “I’m just visiting. What has happened? Why are you accosting that young lady?”
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  “Young lady?” Palmer scoffed. “She’s no young lady. She’s a Celestial I caught attempting to break into Miss Parham’s room.”

  “From what I overheard, Mr. Palmer, the young lady is here to collect laundry from one of your guests,” Will said.

  “That’s what they all say,” Mr. Palmer replied. “But the fact is that Miss Parham was informed of our policy forbidding Celestials to enter the hotel proper, and this laundry”—he sneered the word—“girl was warned on a previous occasion. The police will have to be called, and as a result of Miss Parham’s flouting of our rules and regulations concerning guest conduct, I will have to ask her to vacate her room and the premises—”

  “I don’t think so.” Will stared at the other man.

  Having worked up a righteous head of steam, Mr. Palmer was astonished that Will had the audacity to interrupt him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You should be begging this young lady’s pardon, sir,” Will told him, “as well as mine. I object to any man—especially a man of your stature and girth”—Will heard Seth Hammond’s snicker behind him and Palmer’s snort of indignation in front of him—“using his position of authority as well as his size to bully weaker individuals, especially females. So I suggest you release the young lady before Mr. Hammond and I are forced to remove you from the premises without benefit of the police.”

  “You can’t do that!” Palmer exclaimed. “I am the m-m-manager of this establishment. The owner, Mr. Iverson, will hear of this outrage!” Palmer was so irate he was sputtering, his double chin was wobbling, and his muttonchop whiskers were vibrating.

  “Mr. Iverson no longer owns the Russ House Hotel,” Will explained.

  “Since when?” Mr. Palmer demanded.

  Will shrugged his shoulders. “I heard the news this morning. From what I gathered from the gentlemen discussing it over breakfast, a notice will probably appear in the Chronicle in the next day or two. It seems your Mr. Iverson has suffered a reversal of fortune and has neglected an outstanding note, and the owner of that note called it in. As a consequence, the hotel was sold.” Will looked Mr. Palmer in the eyes. “Or so I heard.” Will concocted the fabrications on the spot and felt no guilt in relating them to a bully like Palmer.