Gold Digger: A Klondike Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  Irene’s song finished, and she curtsied to the audience as softy as an ostrich feather drifting to the floor. The men went wild, cheering and stomping their feet. Gold nuggets flew through the air. Irene gathered them up with a gracious smile, her eyes judging the worth of every one as she did so.

  “Gentleman.” The caller crossed the stage once Irene had gathered her loot and departed. “Time to take your partners for a long, dreamy, juicy waltz.”

  The benches were pushed to the sides of the room and men rushed forward, clutching the tickets that they’d bought for one dollar each. They thrust their ticket at a girl, the orchestra struck up, and the lucky men took their partner through a few hurried dance steps. Exactly one minute later, the music stopped, mid-note, as the onedollar dance came to an end. The girls dragged their man off to the bar so he could have the opportunity to buy a drink, whether he wanted one or not. The bartender then handed the girl a disk that she’d trade at the end of the night for her twenty-five cent share of the profits. The girls stuck their disks into the top of their stockings. This would carry on until six o’clock in the morning. By then, the more popular girls could scarcely walk for the weight encumbering their legs.

  When Irene stepped onto the dance floor, her smile bright and her arms held out to her sides in invitation, a rush of men threatened to sweep her away.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” Fiona moved graciously through the crowd. “Behave yourselves. The night has only just begun. There’s plenty of time for everyone to enjoy a dance.”

  Respectfully, the men stood back. Too bad, Sterling thought, women couldn’t join the NWMP: with Fiona MacGillivray on the force, no one would dare to put a foot out of place. He pushed aside the picture of thick black hair tucked into the pointed hat and lush curves straining the seams of the red coat.

  Irene favoured Jack Ireland with a gracious nod and a flirtatious smile. The reporter slipped his arms around his prize’s ample form. She touched the back of his shoulders, and they moved into the dance.

  Ray Walker growled low in his throat. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the bar, Ray?”

  Fiona glared at him.

  Graham Donohue planted himself directly in front of the dancing couple.

  Ireland shifted Irene to guide her around the obstacle. Donohue stepped with them. They might have been a dancing trio. Ireland stopped. Irene twisted her head to see what was going on behind her. Fiona crossed the floor, pushing men and dance hall girls out of her way. One by one the couples on the floor drifted to a halt. The orchestra, knowing that no one was paying them any attention, stopped playing.

  “If you’ll excuse us, partner,” Ireland said, his common man accent back in place. “Lady Irenee and me are havin’ ourselves a dance.”

  “You’re in my territory, Ireland.” Donohue’s words were slurred. He leaned forward, trying to loom over the fractionally shorter older man. Ireland laughed without mirth and turned to Irene. “Fellow needs to learn that a newspaperman ain’t got a territory. In our business, it’s winner take all.” His eyes dropped to the scooped neck of Irene’s dress, leaving the onlookers in no doubt as to what the winner of this contest intended to claim.

  Irene giggled, wiggled her hips, and attempted to flutter her stubby eyelashes.

  An old-timer guffawed. “Ain’t that the truth, boy. And not just in the newspaper business, either.”

  Ireland extended his arms to his dance partner.

  Donohue took a swing at him.

  He was an experienced fighter, had at least twenty years advantage, maybe more, on the reporter from San Francisco, and Ireland’s attention was distracted for the moment by the simpering Irene. But drink slowed Donohue down. Ireland saw the blow coming and, given a chance to play for the audience, pushed Irene out of the way, although she was in absolutely no danger, before pulling his head to one side so that the punch glanced off his cheek.

  Irene staggered into the arms of a gambler who always dressed as if he were about to do immediate battle against the Plains Indians. Graham swung to deliver another, more accurate punch.

  The room erupted.

  “Twenty dollars on the old fellow,” someone yelled from deep inside the crowd of observers.

  Coins, bills, nuggets and bags of gold dust flashed in answer. Men rushed in from the bar and the gambling hall to join the fun. They jostled for position, both to watch the fight and to lay bets.

  Fiona MacGillivray pushed men out of the way and screamed directly into Donohue’s face in a most unladylike manner, spittle flying everywhere. “You’re banned, Graham. Out of here. Now!”

  Ray Walker tried to force his way through the press of men and women to reach Irene. She smiled up at the man who’d caught her, realized that all eyes were on her and, with a light moan, sank into a swoon. Holding the fainting beauty in his arms, the lucky man called for brandy, room to breathe, and a doctor. He attempted to drag Irene out of the crush to safety, but not ready to leave the centre of attention quite yet, she smiled up at him, and with another moan and a shudder, which had all the men leaning forward, she courageously attempted to gather her strength.

  “Ray,” Fiona said sharply, her eyes cold and dark. “Forget Irene and get Graham out of here.” Walker looked at Irene, and he looked at his business partner. Indecision tore at his life-battered face.

  Sterling grabbed Graham’s wrist. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Donohue.”

  “What?” Graham spat, twisting in the constable’s professional grip. “That goddamned bastard comes into my town, and you arrest me. What the hell for?”

  “For the use of vile language, for one thing,” Sterling said. “But mainly for attacking a man thirty years older than you with no provocation in the full sight of a hundred men and several ladies.”

  “Well, not quite thirty,” Ireland said, straightening his tie and smiling at the people around him. “There, there, fellow. Allow me to help the lady.” He eased Irene away from Ray, who had taken her from her rescuer. “My dear, shall we finish our dance?”

  Donohue spluttered; Walker looked as if he were about to take a swing at Ireland himself.

  “Ray,” Fiona snapped. “There’ll be a rush on the bar any minute now. You’d best get in there. And if you lot don’t start playing,” she shouted to the orchestra, “I’ll dock your pay. Dances begin again. One minute, starting now.” For a woman of such delicate, gently-brought-up appearance, Fiona MacGillivray could put on a voice like a sailor in the British Navy when she had a mind to. The orchestra launched directly into the middle of their tune, and the men grabbed their partners. At least forty seconds of dancing before the trouble started, then a minute or two spent standing with their girl, arm about waist if lucky, and another minute of dancing. For some of these men, who’d abandoned all in pursuit of gold, this was the only bit of good fortune they’d had in months. Ray Walker returned to his bar with a grumble, a nasty glance at Fiona, a longing look at Irene, and an angry grimace at Ireland. Sterling escorted Donohue out the door.

  The man might have been drunk, and his protests were loud and effusive, but he knew better than to resist arrest.

  “Fiona, Light of the Land of the Midnight Sun, you can’t do this to me. Tell this fine, upstanding Man-of-the Law to let me go.”

  Fiona walked with them to the door. “The next time you set foot in my place, Graham Donohue, be on your knees.” Her black eyes burned like chips of coal consumed by a single red spark, deep inside. “You’ve cost me ten minutes of prime dancing time.” She looked at Sterling. “Throw away the key.” And with a toss of her head, which had the soft black tendrils that caressed her cheeks jumping, she plunged back into the crowd, encouraging men to go to the bar, to buy another dance ticket, maybe return to the tables for one more round of poker or spin of the roulette wheel.

  Sterling relaxed his grip on his prisoner. “You’ve really messed this one up, Donohue. What came over you? Ireland’s a fool and a popinjay, but you don’t go picking a fight with e
very idiot in town. Didn’t know you had a fancy for Irene.”

  “Irene.” Donohue shrugged, straightening his rumpled coat. “Plenty like her around. But that Ireland, don’t mistake him for a fool. Man’s trouble no matter where he goes.”

  “You’ve met before?”

  Donohue laughed, the sound cold and bitter. “You could say so. Lead the way to your finest cell, Constable.” The ugly laugh died, and his voice broke. “They won’t give me a blue ticket will they, Sterling? I’m counting on my stint in Dawson to make my reputation. Can’t we just forget about it? Pal.”

  “Don’t insult me with a question like that again, Donohue, or I will recommend you get a card.” Sterling walked out into the strange half-night, confident that his prisoner would follow in his footsteps. A blue ticket was a serious matter, and the NWMP enforced the ban without mercy. They had no facilities, and no food, to care for a jail full of criminals, particularly through a long, desperate winter. Better all round to simply exile miscreants.

  A girl who worked at one of the less reputable dance halls dashed by, giggling wildly, her red skirt and frothy white petticoats held almost up to her knees. A fat man in late middle age, well dressed in a severe dark suit topped by a stiff black hat, followed, trying to keep his footing in the mud and his eyes on his quarry at the same time. The girl tossed Sterling a cheerful wink, peered over her shoulder, squealed at the sight of her pursuer without the slightest alarm and lifted her petticoats higher. She was not wearing stockings, and her legs were thick and white. The man stumbled after her, struggling for breath.

  The Vanderhaege sisters’ bakery was a reproachful dark patch in this street of the midnight sun, of painted, colourful women laughing too loud, and men drunk, if not on liquor at least on possibilities. Overhead, the tattered advertising banners and competing national flags cracked in the night’s stiff breeze.

  “Tonight you’ll spend in jail,” Sterling said. “If you run into that Ireland fellow again, take my advice and keep well clear. This is your second offence, Donohue. Another one, and you will find yourself holding a blue ticket.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The fight on the dance floor served to get the men in the mood: for the rest of the night they were like moose caught up in the rut. Fights kept breaking out all over. Ray stood behind the bar sulking until I wanted to give him a good punch myself. Most of the fights that threaten to break out in the Savoy I can disperse with a smile, a toss of the hair, flutter of the eyelashes, and the occasional firm, no-nonsense tone that reminds them of their mothers. But I am aware of the limits of my charm; I needed Ray behind me, and on this night he wasn’t always there. He was too busy watching and scowling while Irene danced one dance after another with Ireland, plied him with drink, laughed at his jokes and gasped at his stories, while her stockings filled with his drink chips.

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing—I should have banned Jack Ireland, not Graham Donohue. And I certainly should have advised Irene not to cozy up to Ireland.

  But that was all in the future. On this Friday night, the girls were staggering with fatigue after a night spent dancing like wild jungle women with sweaty, unwashed, drunken miners, fancy boys and the odd true gentleman. Of course, I have no personal experience of jungle women, but I did once see an illustrated book when I was a child, sneaked out of the library of the big house, written by a famous African explorer. Mighty terrifying it was too, almost as terrifying as what would have happened to me if I’d been caught with it.

  The bartenders drooped as they washed up their glasses. The orchestra played as if their instruments were filled with rocks and the strings made of cow intestines.

  Almost time to close the dance hall then the bar and gambling tables.

  Ray called last round, and men began to make their way to the door. A few of the newcomers complained, but once they were told that other places were still open, they didn’t mind leaving quite so much. I wasn’t completely scrupulous about shutting the place at six o’clock. If there was a good game going—meaning a big spender on a losing streak—Jake, my head croupier, had the option to keep the tables open as long as necessary to clean the sucker—I mean the customer—out.

  But the dance hall closed at the drop of six, at which time the exhausted dancers lined up to cash in their chips. Then they were ready for nothing but their beds, with maybe a bite of breakfast first. The odd punter waited outside for his favourite to appear, but my girls generally didn’t go in for after-hours entertaining. They left that for the cribs on Paradise Alley, which kept the demand for the dollar-a-minute dances nice and high.

  Irene turned in her chips and joined Jack Ireland who was waiting for her, leaning against the wall under the cracked mirror. She slipped her hand through his arm with an expression I could only describe as greedy, and they walked towards the door in unison. Ray stepped out from behind the bar, where they were still busy finishing last call. Ray’s face reminded me of a thundercloud Angus and I had seen from the comfort of our train as it passed across the vast, open Saskatchewan prairie.

  There wasn’t much Ray could do. Irene was obviously under no pressure to leave with Mr. San Francisco Standard. The Scotsman glared at them with an expression that turned his normally unattractive face into that of a gargoyle adorning the heights of a government building.

  I linked Ray’s arm through mine, still trying to protect my throbbing left wrist wrapped in its makeshift sling. “Rough night.” He shrugged me off.

  “Lovely evening.” Jack Ireland grinned like the proverbial cat with the proverbial cream. Said cream, Irene, patted her hair and avoided my eyes. Ray growled, and I sensed another fight coming. If Ray hit one of the customers, the Mounties might close us down, or even give Ray a blue ticket. Fortunately, I was standing on his left, where my one working hand could reach. I took his little finger and folded it back towards the wrist. I smiled at Ireland. “Hard to believe it’s morning already.”

  Ray tried to pull his hand away. My grip held. They’d taught us wild children a thing or two, and taught it well, in the grimy, hopeless alleys of the East End, where the stench of the Thames had found its way into my very dreams.

  Ireland tightened his grip on Irene’s waist, almost jerking her off her feet. “Goodnight, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Ireland. Irene.”

  Ray’s body stiffened even further. I maintained my hold on his finger. He could have broken my grip in a second, if he wanted to make a scene for the enjoyment of half the drinkers in Dawson.

  The couple walked out into the dusky light of early morning. A horse and cart clattered by, the horse letting loose his day’s supply of bodily waste, the back hooves tossing the filth in all directions. Irene whimpered as the muck splattered the skirt of her best coat. As if she hadn’t been splattered with a good deal worse since arriving in Dawson. Ireland pretended to block her from the spray, long after all danger had passed. As far as I was concerned, they deserved each other.

  I released my partner’s little finger.

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Fee,” Ray growled, genuinely angry.

  One of the bigger gamblers staggered past. If I remembered properly, he’d lost a good deal of money at faro, one night after the other. “I hope to see you again tomorrow, sir,” I said with my best smile.

  He bowed deeply, and said, in a Boston Brahmin accent, “Always a pleasure, Mrs. MacGillivray. You have the best table in the Yukon, if not the entire of Western North America.” Give me a willing loser any day. So much easier than the fools who expected to win at poker or find true love with a dance hall girl.

  That thought, of course, brought me back to Irene and why Ray and I were standing on the step glaring at each other.

  We watched as my best girl picked her way delicately across the boardwalk, hanging onto Jack Ireland’s arm.

  “Ray,” I said, patting his hand. “She isn’t worth the sweat on your brow.” I never did have a talent for metaphor.

 
He looked at me. “Christ, Fiona. Will you just mind your own business for once? No one appointed you Queen of Dawson, last I heard.”

  Ray Walker was a good partner. His rough, communal Glasgow habits balanced my every-woman-for-herself East End and Belgravia Square instincts. I kept the punters and drinkers lining up for more, and Ray kept them in line. Together we’d turned the Savoy into the most profitable dance hall in Dawson, Yukon Territory.

  I looked at my scrawny, rat-faced, angry partner, and I folded my pride into my petticoats. “Ray, sometimes I can’t understand a word you’re saying. And my family true Scots from long before the time of the Bonnie Prince himself. Sometime I’ll tell you the story of how the MacGillivray clan stood shoulder to shoulder with the Prince at Culloden. Every last one of them. And how we lost everything in the Greatest of All Battles. Oh, it was a hard time, I’m tellin’ ye. Why if the fight had gone t’other way, I might not be standin’ here. I might be sitting warm and snug, a grand lady in me own castle in the heart of the Highlands. And wouldn’t that be a sight?”

  Ray cracked a smile. “I love you dearly, Fee. Time to close up.”

  As I watched him go, I thought about what I’d said. I hadn’t even tried to put on the bad grammar and the accent. All I had to do was to think about my family: about the groundskeeper’s cottage where we had lived, my father’s fierce pride in our family’s legacy, and the memories were back again.

  Such a sweet little thing I had been. Long ago.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I poured canned milk onto my porridge and eyed my son. Angus was being unusually vague about his plans for the day.

  Mrs. Mann, our landlady, fussed over him, as she always did. She was a wisp of a woman, with a mass of steel-grey hair scraped into a severe bun that weighed about as much as all the rest of her. Her accent was full of the memory of Germany, but she was justifiably proud of her English.