by Vicki Delany
He ruefully reflected that she seemed more interested in making business contacts than in the pleasure of his company.
Word had spread that twin sisters would be performing at the Monte Carlo. Thus the custom at the Savoy was down considerably tonight. He didn’t know how they’d be able to manage if it had gone up. It had been a close call last night. Good thing the police had been on their guard and expecting trouble. A riot could travel through town with the speed of a wildfire. Or a rumour.
Ray Walker did a double take when Sterling and Eleanor Jennings came through the doors.
She left Sterling to order drinks — whisky for him, lemonade for her — and joined the group of men gathered around Barney’s customary stool.
“Gentlemen, good evening.”
They touched hats and caps. Barney grinned through tobacco-stained and broken teeth. “I’m still wanting to take your photograph, sir,” she said to the sourdough, wagging her finger like a displeased schoolmarm. “You promised to sit for me.”
“Can’t imagine what you want with this ugly mug. I figure my face might break your camera.”
“You have a truly original face.”
“You can say that again,” a man snorted.
Sterling handed her the drink. He sipped his whisky. A rare indulgence. Not bad stuff at all.
“I’m surprised to see you here this evening, Nicky,” Eleanor said. “I thought you were leaving town.”
“In due course. In due course. Couldn’t leave without a last evening with my new friends.”
“Didn’t know you had friends,” John Turner said.
The man never smiled, at least never when Richard Sterling had been around to witness.
“You are my friend,” Nicky replied, not realizing he’d been insulted. “We play together, no?”
“If you call giving me all your money every night playing, then I guess you could say we’re friends.”
“Excellent. Now, time for a game, I believe. Our English friend should be completing his second round of performances shortly.”
The two men ordered a refill of their drinks, and then went through to the gambling hall.
Eleanor Jennings drifted around the room, chatting to men, handing business cards to those she had not yet met. Sterling watched her. She smiled and held her head to one side and listened in total attention. She had a way of making the speaker think he was a person of incomparable interest.
She reminded him, he realized, of Fiona.
29
As I’d expected custom was less than normal tonight. I was glad of it, yet hoping this wouldn’t be the start of a downward spiral into bankruptcy and, worse, insignificance.
Ridiculous. I still employed the most popular dance hall girl in the territory, had the best lineup of performers, the most enthusiastic chorus line. The audience would tire of the twins soon enough and be once again streaming through our doors.
Irene was tense tonight. So tense I could almost smell it. The big announcement was coming. I doubted very much that I’d like it. But there wasn’t much I could do other than take her off the stage. And that would do nothing for our custom.
Tension, however, served to make her bold. Bolder than usual, that is. Her gestures were more extravagant, her voice louder, her dancing more daring. She smiled widely, kicked her legs with abandon, sang as if her heart were breaking. And I do believe when she shouted “out darned spot” there might have been a tear in her eye. Even the audience, most of whom were here in hopes of catching a glimpse of a dancer’s knee or maybe even — if fortune’s face was shining — her knickers, and didn’t care about the quality of the performance any more than they cared about the quality of the mud they waded through to get here, seemed to be impressed. They sat a bit straighter, were a fraction quieter, and now and again nudged their fellows in admiration rather than amusement or lechery.
Ray Walker stood at the back, watching the show, something he didn’t usually do. He stared at Irene, his face long and sad and wanting.
If Irene’s big announcement was that she was leaving the Savoy for another dance hall, I would have no choice but to up her already considerable salary.
I detest feeling as though I’m at someone’s mercy.
The three poker players were hard at it when Ray I walked through the hall. Roland focused all his attention on his cards, John Turner scowled at everyone, and Count Nicky was performing to the few uninterested folk who’d stopped to watch the game.
Eleanor Jennings was in the saloon, sitting at the big round table in the centre, surrounded by men. She had a stack of her cards in front of her and was explaining the principles of photography. To my surprise, Richard Sterling stood against the bar. His boot was on the footrest and he held a glass of whisky in his hand. I had a fraction of a moment before he realized I’d arrived in which to observe him. He was watching Eleanor Jennings with an unreadable expression on his face.
He looked up, saw me. His eyes opened in what I took to be pleasure and then his face closed so abruptly someone might have brought down the shutters.
I turned away and went back into the dance hall, stomach churning.
30
I didn’t make it.
“Mother!” a voice shouted across the room. Angus was striding rapidly toward me. Richard moved away from the bar and Angus turned and spoke to him. I couldn’t hear the words but my son’s tone was sharp and his face anxious.
I crossed the room at an unladylike clip. Men stopped in mid-sentence and turned to watch. Eleanor Jennings rose to her feet.
“What on earth?” I began. “Has something happened? What’s the matter?”
“Magnesium. It’s explosive.”
“What’s magnesium?” I asked.
“A powder. When combined with other chemicals it’s used to create a sudden bright light for the taking of photography,” Richard answered. “The mixture is explosive. What about it, Angus?”
“Stolen. From Miss Jennings.”
“When?”
“An explosion,” someone said. “There’s going to be an explosion? Where? When?”
The word passed though the room as fast as though someone had offered to pay for a round.
“Upstairs,” Richard ordered.
“I don’t know if we have time,” Angus said.
“Time for what?” I asked.
“Angus, I expressly told you not to talk about this to the police.” Eleanor had come to join us. Her blue eyes as dark as a storm-tossed sea.
“I’m sorry, Miss Jennings, but I can’t keep it secret. I have a duty to the people of this town. Someone stole a quantity of the powders used to create a flash from Miss Jennings’ studio this afternoon, sir.”
“What else was taken?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure they were stolen, not simply misplaced?”
“They were stolen, all right,” Eleanor said. “I do not misplace my supplies or equipment. I didn’t want to create a fuss, which is precisely what seems to be happening now.”
“I believe it’s up to the police to decide if a fuss needs to be taken, madam.”
“Oh, Richard,” she said, though wide eyes and thick lashes, “don’t be angry with me.” The corners of her mouth turned into a pout but the storm still raged.
“Explosives?” one of the onlookers repeated. “Someone’s stolen explosives?”
“Nothing to be concerned about,” Richard said, “simply misplaced, that’s all.”
“But the lady here said …”
“And I said there’s nothing to be concerned about. Now, George O’Reilly, if you haven’t spent enough time on the woodpile …”
“Guess I heard wrong,” O’Reilly said. “Nothing to worry about, folks. Bartender, pour me another.” He slipped away, heading for the safety of the far end of the counter.
“This isn’t the first time today I’ve heard word of an explosion,” Richard said. “I thought someone was talking about fireworks and didn’t pay the
m any mind. Let’s go upstairs and talk about this.”
“There isn’t time,” Angus said. “I think it’s here. The …”
“Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake.”
“The … object … is here.”
As one we all turned to study the room, looking for a pile of magnesium powder. Like me, most of the others wouldn’t know such a thing unless it had a sign prominently displayed.
“Angus,” Richard said, “what makes you think it’s here? It could be anywhere. It could have been taken by someone wanting it for other purposes. Mining for example.”
“It’s not strong enough to blast rock.”
“I know that, but the thief might not.”
“Mr. Sullivan has it. I’m sure of it. He tried to cause trouble here before. What better trouble than a bomb? He was at your studio the other day, right Miss Jennings? For a photograph of him and his daughter. If the picture was taken indoors, you would have used the flash powder. That means he saw it, saw where you kept it, and how to use it.”
I might be prepared to dismiss my son’s protestations as the immature histrionics of a child. But aside from the fact that Angus was never one to have histrionics, he clearly wasn’t looking for attention, and he wasn’t creating a bother. He was speaking slowly, calmly, and his face was set into determined lines. Richard seemed to think the same.
“Fiona, has Sullivan been in the Savoy tonight? He must know the police are looking for him, with orders to arrest him on sight for instigating a riot.”
“I haven’t seen him. A great many people come through our doors and I don’t necessarily spot them all. Ray?”
“Nae a sign of him.”
“I’m going to have a look around. Do you want to close the Savoy, Fiona? Walker? Get everyone out of here?”
Ray and I exchanged glances.
“Won’t that cause a panic?” I asked.
“Quite possibly. I would, for that reason, advise against it.
“Walker, you and Joe check upstairs. I’m going to have a look in the dance hall. Angus, go to the fort. Get reinforcements.”
“I’d rather not, sir. I know what the powder looks like, remember. You need me here.”
“I’ll send one of the girls,” I said. It was approaching midnight and two of the percentage girls wandered in as we talked. I waved them over and told them to run to the fort and ask for several officers to come to the Savoy.
“Why?” they chorused.
“Because I said so,” I replied. Hadn’t I said that to Angus when he was small?
“But …”
“But if you aren’t back, with the police in tow, in ten minutes, you’re both fired.”
They fled.
We’d been trying to keep our voices low, but there was no keeping secrets in the Savoy. A couple of the drinkers whispered among themselves, before slipping out. (They did not fail to finish their drinks first.) Barney’s chatter ground to a halt as he realized no one was left for him to regal with his stories.
“What can I do?” Eleanor asked.
“Like Angus, see if you can locate this stuff. How much are we talking about, anyway?”
“A couple of spoonfuls,” Angus said.
Sterling refrained from groaning. A man could hide a couple of spoons full of any sort of powder in his pockets.
“Fiona,” Richard said, “start looking for Sullivan. Don’t approach him if you see him, come and get me or one of the other Mounties. Walker, get searching. Angus and Eleanor, you too.”
I strolled — well, I tried to stroll — into the back rooms. The gambling hall was packed. As well as the three regulars, two other players had joined the poker game. Jake was behind the roulette table, and I pulled him aside. I told him to watch out for anyone acting suspiciously. He regarded me as if I’d told him I was turning the Savoy into a nunnery. Watching for those “acting suspiciously” was the primary job description for the head croupier in a dance hall.
I headed for the back. Time for the penultimate act, the cancan, followed by Irene’s dance of the seven veils. Something caught my attention. I stopped and turned. One of the poker players I hadn’t seen before. He had a heavy beard, round thick spectacles, bushy black eyelashes, and long hair that hadn’t felt the touch of soap and water for a very long time. His right eyebrow was drooping downwards at a highly unnatural angle.
Something rather familiar about him.
Gerry Sullivan. I was sure of it. Heavily disguised, but him none the less.
I hurried back into the saloon. It was practically empty. Everyone had run off to do as Richard had ordered.
I caught Barney in the act of attempting to crawl across the bar to reach the bottles on the back shelf. For a moment I forgot we were in deadly danger and shouted, “Stop right where you are.”
He didn’t look the least bit apologetic. Merely settled back onto his stool with an air of offended dignity.
I lifted my skirts to unseemly heights and galloped up the stairs. Voices at the end of the hall. “Ray,” I bellowed, “I’ve found him.”
“Found who?” Ray asked as his head popped around a corner.
“Sullivan. He’s here.”
Back down the stairs with my partner at my heels. Through the salon, this time ignoring Barney casually pouring himself a drink, into the gambling hall.
The man with the beard wasn’t there.
Into the dance hall. The men were on their feet now, cheering the cancan. On stage legs and petticoats flashed, women smiled. The orchestra played. Maxie moved to centre stage; she lifted her leg and grabbed her ankle. The men howled and hooted.
“There!” I grabbed Ray’s arm. “It’s him.”
The bearded man was on the far side of the room, standing at the bottom of the steps.
Angus, my precious son, was between us. He’d recognized Sullivan and was heading in that direction. I ran, pushing and shoving men out of my way. I knew Ray was behind me. I didn’t see Richard anywhere.
Sullivan wasn’t yet aware of us. He had a cigar in his mouth. He pulled a box of matches out of his shirt pocket, took one out, and struck the tip. He held the flame to his cigar and puffed. Over the music and the shouting and the thunder of women’s feet, I heard Angus cry, “You there! You’re under arrest.”
Saints preserve us. My son thought he was a Mountie.
“Angus,” I yelled. “Stop.”
My son charged Sullivan, somewhat in the manner of a scrawny bull charging a matador. The man glanced around. His eyes widened when he saw Angus, followed by Ray and me, approaching. He dropped the match to the floor.
“No,” Angus yelled.
A black boot came out of the crowd. It stepped on the match, ground it into the sawdust. Extinguished it. “Gerry Sullivan, you’ve changed since yesterday,” Richard Sterling said, grabbing the man’s arm. “You’re under arrest.”
Angus dropped to the floor. I feared he was having a stroke, shocked by events. He scrabbled through the sawdust at men’s feet. “Got it,” he said.
He scrambled to his feet and slowly opened his hand. Grey powder.
31
The percentage girls arrived with two Mounties in time to escort Gerry Sullivan to the fort. He didn’t go without a fuss. Much yelling about the glory of Ireland and the cursed British oppressors and damning of our beloved queen.
What blowing up a saloon in the Yukon had to do with the fate of Ireland was beyond my capacity to understand. Perhaps some things truly are men’s business.
Eleanor Jennings had screamed at Angus to put the powder mixture down, instantly. Apparently it could go off accidently if exposed to flame. Ray grabbed an unfinished glass of whisky from the nearest customer and Angus dropped the powder into the liquid. The man was so shocked by this behaviour he didn’t object to having his drink ruined.
The clientele of the Savoy are, as was displayed the previous evening, not averse to leaping into a fight on any pretext. They might not much care about the political situation
in Ireland vis-à-vis their British overlords, or like to hear a fat, matronly old lady cursed, but anything to do with the oppressive British would normally have the Americans rallying to the cause.
Tonight, however, the expected fight did not materialize. Whispers about explosions, attempts to blow up the Savoy, accompanied by “slaughter us all in our beds,” and enough dynamite to blow the whole town sky high, took the wind out of a prospective fighter’s sails. They might be happy enough to swing a fist in any direction, regardless of the cause involved (or lack thereof), but Sullivan had threatened their favourite watering hole, not to mention life and limb of anyone in the vicinity.
“How much damage might that have done?” I asked.
“Enough to blow off a careless photographer’s arm,” Eleanor said. “Which has been known to happen. The danger here would have been if it ignited the floor and the fire spread. Plus the panic the initial explosion would have caused.”
“What on earth could the man have been thinking?”
“Not thinking at all, I suspect. After all, he was the closest one to the powder and the match. His foot would have been the first to go.”
Richard Sterling slapped Angus on the back. “Well done, lad. Good thinking and fast action.”
Angus beamed. I did not like that beam. He was getting altogether overconfident for my liking.
John Turner, Roland the Magnificent, and Count Nicky stood at the door, watching.
The cancan and accompanying music had drifted to a halt when everyone became aware of the commotion at the back. Now that Sullivan was gone, escorted out by two burley Mounties, the girls milled about on the stage, unsure of what to do. The audience had stood up, straining their necks to get a better view. Impromptu show over, they began to take their seats. Soon the hooting and thumping began. Someone might have attempted to blow up the Savoy, to wreak havoc and destruction in our midst, but enough was enough and it was time to get on with the show.