Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

The girls had stopped their preparations and their gossip to watch the exchange. I snarled something about a show to put on, and left them to it.

  Roland was climbing the stage when I came out. The men booed and hissed in their friendly manner. He took a deep bow in acknowledgement.

  I entered the saloon in time to see Count Nicky arrive. He was particularly well dressed tonight in a long-tailed black frock coat, crisp white shirt, and grey cravat. Diamond stickpin at his throat and stout gold-tipped walking stick in hand.

  The count paused in the entrance. He lifted his stick. “Gentlemen. Friends.” He spotted me. “Distinguished lady.” He paused, waiting, presumably for everyone’s attention. As a pronouncement of that sort usually preceded the buying of drinks for all present, the men obliged.

  John Turner accepted a glass of whisky from Not-Murray. Barney paused mid-story. Helen Saunderson came out of the closet behind the bar, carrying a clattering mop and sloshing pail. The count glared at her. She ignored him.

  He raised his hand. The jewel in his ring glittered red in the weak kerosene light. “I will be departing on the morrow. I have important business to conduct in Washington.”

  “Didn’t he tell us that already?” Barney muttered.

  “I will, I hope, be back with news of critical importance. Thank you all.” He lowered his hand.

  The men waited.

  Count Nicky headed for the back. One more round of poker, no doubt.

  “It’s customary,” Barney shouted, “for a fellow what’s leaving town to buy a round for his friends.”

  The men muttered agreement.

  “You have to do it, Nicky,” I said. “You can’t stand there looking important and leave the men with empty glasses.”

  “Very well,” he said with a martyred sigh, “I suppose I must become familiar with your customs. Bartender, a drink for my friends.”

  The stampede began. Word that free drinks were on offer spread through a dancehall faster than news of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy through a duchess’s garden party.

  John Turner moved in the other direction, away from the press surging toward the bar. He stood alone, studying the count with a serious expression. He turned, saw me watching, and came over, habitual frown firmly in place.

  “Think he’s finally leaving?”

  “He does seem to enjoy telling everyone he has important business in Washington.”

  Turner studied me for a long time. Then he gave me a slight nod and walked away. I felt he had told me something. But I had absolutely no idea what that might be.

  Eleanor Jennings, my son trailing in her wake, came in as the free round was ending and the men were heading back to the gambling tables or benches in the dance hall. “I thought I might enjoy the show this evening, Fiona,” she said. “I haven’t seen it before, you know.”

  “I’ll ensure you find a good seat. But Angus cannot watch.”

  He pouted, not surprised. Even if I were inclined to let him in, which I most certainly was not, the police wouldn’t allow it. Something about corrupting the morals of a minor.

  “I’ve never heard Irene sing,” Eleanor said, her tone wistful. “I’d like to. This may be my last chance.”

  “You’re leaving?” I said, warm with pleasure.

  She blinked. “Me? No, I have no plans to leave.”

  “Oh. Angus, go home.”

  “Ah, Mother, it’s still early.”

  “Find something entertaining to do then. You should be playing with your friends, not hanging around a dance hall.”

  Eleanor touched his arm. “She’s right. You’ve proved to be a wonderful assistant, but you need to have fun also. I’ll see you on Monday. Oh, there’s Richard. How lovely.” She turned the full strength of her smile onto the new arrival and fluttered her gloved fingers at him. A blond ringlet bounced as she cocked her head to one side.

  I ground my teeth.

  “Richard,” Eleanor said, “you’re just in time. I’m going to watch the show. Won’t you join me?”

  “Another time, perhaps.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s Roland?”

  “Still on stage,” I said. “He’ll be finished in a few minutes. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Why’s the count all gussied up?”

  “He’s saying his farewells. You can probably still get a free drink out of him.”

  “Won’t be sorry to see him leave,” Richard said. Probably the only man in the place who’d ignore my suggestion of a free drink. He wasn’t in uniform, meaning he wasn’t on duty, so he should be able to unwind and enjoy himself. But he wasn’t looking the least bit relaxed.

  “He says he has business in Washington. I wonder if he’s a Russian diplomat of some sort.”

  “Of some sort,” Eleanor said.

  Angus laughed.

  “What does that mean?” Richard asked her, his voice surprisingly sharp.

  “Nothing.”

  Angus laughed again.

  I felt as though I were in the midst of a play for which I had studied the wrong script.

  Nicky freed himself from a pack of enthusiastic well-wishers and headed toward us. Behind me a glass fell to the floor. I turned at the sound and saw John Turner standing against the wall. He watched our small group with a steady, unblinking stare. Helen was heading for the broken glass and spilled liquor, mop held high.

  Boos and catcalls sounded the end of the magic act. Cheers and hooting announced the arrival of the dancers.

  “Where’s Walker?” Richard asked me.

  I glanced around. My partner was nowhere to be seen. He paid little attention to what went on in the gambling hall, trusting Jake to keep control, and rarely watched the stage performance although he sometimes showed up for Irene’s closing dance. He customarily spent the long hours behind the bar, serving liquor and watching for trouble. “He was here earlier. Probably taking a break.”

  “One last game, no?” Count Nicky said to John Turner.

  “Sure. Where do you suppose our friend has gotten to?”

  Richard didn’t bother to excuse himself. He pushed his way through the crowd in the direction of the dance hall. Angus watched him go.

  Then he followed.

  I couldn’t allow that. I had told my son he was to go home. I set off in pursuit.

  I was waylaid before I’d gone three feet. “Mrs. MacGillivray, another lovely evening in your fine establishment.”

  Habit took control. “So nice to see you, sir. It’s been a while, I believe, since you were here last.”

  He smiled at me. “Making my fortune, my dear. Making my fortune. And now I’m back to spend it. Let me buy you a drink.”

  “No thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.”

  I hurried through the gambling room. The room was full but the poker table in the centre was unoccupied. Waiting, presumably, for the big money game.

  The man who accosted me next wasn’t quite as friendly as the previous fellow. “You’re a handsome filly.” He belched rotting meat and cheap cigar smoke into my face. “Let’s have a little squeeze, eh?” A filthy hand reached for my left breast. I backhanded him without so much as breaking stride.

  When I arrived in the dance hall, I could see Richard’s head moving through the row of men lining the walls, Angus’s shorter one bobbing along behind. They stopped by the stairs to the boxes. Richard spoke to Murray, carrying a tray of empty glasses and discarded bottles. Murray looked around and shook his head. Richard and Angus pressed on.

  I felt a niggling touch of worry low in my stomach. Something was wrong. I had absolutely no idea what, but it was enough to have me concerned. Ellie was on centre stage, singing a lively song while the chorus line cavorted behind her. The audience looked pleased. Richard was heading for the rear of the building now. Very strange.

  I ploughed on, alternately accepting greetings from well-wishers and growling at pests to get out of my way.

  The Savoy has one back entrance, leading out into the alley. The door was normall
y kept locked. Richard reached it. He turned and said something to Angus. Angus replied, Richard opened the door, and they stepped outside. I ran across the few empty feet and made it before the door closed behind them. The light was still good.

  Good enough to see two men grappling on the ground. Good enough to reveal the flash of a knife blade. The man on top had the weapon, the other one cried out as the knife fell, but he had strength enough to grip the wrist, trying to keep the blade from striking again.

  Richard shouted. Angus yelled. I do believe I might have screamed. Richard crossed the few feet of the alley at a run. He reached down and grabbed the man on top, the one with the knife, by the shoulder. He pulled. The man leapt to his feet with a roar, arm extended, knife held out.

  Roland.

  I glanced at the man on the ground. Ray, breathing heavily. Blood poured from his left arm.

  Roland and Richard faced each other. Roland moved to his right, and Richard did also.

  I laid my hand against Angus’s back.

  “Put the knife down,” Richard said, voice calm and steady, eyes focused on Roland’s hand.

  “Stay out of this, Yellow Stripe. This is big boy’s business.”

  “In this town it’s the business of the North-West Mounted Police. Put the knife down.”

  Ray scrambled backwards on his rear end, taking himself out of range. Then he pushed himself to his feet. He glanced toward Angus and me, gave us a sharp nod.

  “I’ll have you up on charges, Sterling,” Roland said. “Get the hell out of here, and take that interfering bitch and her whelp with you.”

  “You’re making a serious mistake. Ray Walker is no more interested in the cause of Scottish independence than I am. Put the knife down and we can talk it out.”

  Scottish independence?

  “Please, Mr. Roland,” Angus said, “This isn’t right.”

  Roland and Richard circled, facing each other. Richard held his hands up; Roland slashed empty air with the blade. Their breath came in deep spurts. Music drifted through the walls of the Savoy. A dog barked into the night.

  When Roland’s back was to us, Angus charged. He hit the magician full on before I could so much as order him to stop. Roland spun around, the knife slicing downward. I screamed. But Angus had danced back, taking himself out of range. Richard leapt forward, grabbed Roland’s wrist. He twisted. The magician snarled, teeth exposed like a rabid dog. The men grappled and then, with a grunt of pain, the knife clattered to the ground. Roland punched Richard in the stomach and spun around searching for the weapon.

  Angus stepped forward and slugged him, a right fist of the sort that would do a former champion of Winnipeg proud, full into the magician’s face.

  Roland, magnificent no longer, fell hard.

  I kicked the knife into the shadows.

  34

  Richard dropped to the ground beside Roland. He put his knee into the man’s back and pulled his arms up. He shouted at Angus to fetch one of the bouncers. I ran to Ray.

  “I’m all right, Fee,” my partner said through ragged breaths. His left sleeve was sliced open, leaking blood. I ripped the cloth and rolled it back. The cut didn’t look too large and the blood was just a thin trickle. He struggled to sit up. I put my arm around him and helped him stagger to his feet.

  “Took me by surprise. Would nae a happened in the old days.”

  Joe Hamilton burst through the doors, Angus hot on his heels.

  “Let’s get him up,” Richard said. “We’ll take him to the fort.”

  “I’ll help,” Angus said.

  “No!” I shouted.

  “No,” Richard said. “Stay with your mother. I’ll come back later.”

  Eleanor Jennings stood in the doorway. John Turner beside her.

  “Mrs. MacGillivray,” Richard said, “will you please get back inside, and take these people with you.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Turner said, stepping forward.

  “I don’t need …” Richard said.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Turner repeated, firmly.

  Richard looked at him, something unsaid passed between them, and he nodded.

  The two of them, with the help of Joe, wrestled Roland to his feet. “You’ll be sorry about this, Corporal,” the magician shouted. “I’ll see you hanged for interfering in this. And you. I don’t know who the hell you are, but I can guess. You’ll be busted down to latrine-cleaner.”

  “Hey,” someone shouted from inside the Savoy, “what’s going on out there?”

  Men’s heads began popping up, trying to peer over Eleanor’s shoulder into the alley. I decided that Richard did not need further assistance. “Angus, get inside and shut that door. Then find Helen.” Among food supplies and cleaning equipment, she had a small supply of bandages in the storage closet. I kept my arm around Ray. He was able to stand, but I feared shock would be settling in soon. “We’ll go around the front. I don’t dare walk through the dance hall like this.”

  Eleanor stepped aside as Angus slipped past her. “Everything’s okay,” I heard him say as the door closed behind him. “Mr. Walker had a fall. My mother’s with him.”

  Eleanor took Ray’s other arm.

  “I don’t need any help,” I snapped.

  “But I’d like to give it,” she said. “If you’ll let me.”

  “I can walk perfectly fine, ye ken,” Ray said. He took a step forward and his knees wobbled. We grabbed him and supported him around the building and through the front doors of the Savoy Saloon and Dance Hall.

  35

  After all that excitement, I could do nothing but let the evening progress as it normally did. Helen pulled out bandages and clean cloths and tidied Ray up. Fortunately the wound was not deep. Angus found a shirt in one of the upstairs rooms to replace the blood-stained, torn one. Ray rested for a few minutes while Helen fussed, changed his shirt, and then announced he was needed behind the bar.

  I am not his mother, nor his boss, so I didn’t try to stop him from going back to work.

  Few of the patrons realized anything was wrong, and those who had were satisfied that Ray had taken a tumble in the alley. Count Nicky complained loudly that his poker companions had disappeared on him. And just when he was beginning to win.

  But, he reminded us all, he would be leaving soon with important business to conduct in Washington.

  Eleanor Jennings went into the dance hall to hear Irene sing. She left immediately after the song, saying nothing to me. She blinked rapidly, refusing to allow the tears to fall.

  Richard had told us he’d be back after settling Roland into jail, so I allowed Angus to wait upstairs in my office. He deserved to know what was going on.

  I asked Ray, while Helen was tending to his wounds. He shook his head. “I’ve nae a clue, Fee. Roland said he wanted ta talk ta me after his act. I figured he had an offer for a job — him or me. No harm in listening to what he had to say, even though I’m not looking for a job and you do the hiring. I went out ta the alley with him, and he pulled a knife on me. Do ye figure he’s the one killed Jim Stewart?”

  “I can’t imagine two knife-wielding maniacs are wandering around town.”

  Richard returned to the Savoy about an hour later. He hadn’t changed, and his suit jacket was dusty and rumpled. His eyes were sad. He stroked his chin. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  Ray came with us. His colour was not looking all that good, but I figured he was able to take care of himself. Nevertheless, I ensured he took a seat on the sofa.

  Richard stood at the window, looking out, twisting his hat in his hands. Angus gave me a look and I indicated he was to keep quiet. Let the man think.

  Richard turned and faced us.

  “Roland is here, in Canada, to investigate suspicions of a Scottish Independence movement showing an interest in the Yukon.”

  “You mean Jim Stewart,” I said.

  “Probably not his real name. He assumed the nom de guerre of his hero, James Stuart. Stewart was known a
s a Scottish agitator. Whether he was here to drum up anti-British sentiment wherever he could find it, I don’t know. I suspect he was, thus the visit to the restless Americans down at the Yankee Doodle. Ray, did Stewart approach you?”

  Ray shook his head. “Never seen the fellow before he ended up dead. If he’d talked ta me about freeing Scotland I would have laughed in his face. The old country’s problems are none o’ mine. Fee, you know anything about that?”

  “Nothing at all. It is possible, I suppose, that he was coming here. To meet with us.”

  “MacGillivray and Walker,” Richard said. “He might have suspected he’d find sympathetic ears at the Savoy.”

  “What made you realize it was Roland who’d killed him, sir?” Angus asked.

  “Soon as I heard about James Stuart, the uncrowned King of Scotland, I wondered at the coincidence of the names. I came across a book in Stewart’s room. An Illustrated History of Scotland. The pages to do with the Jacobite Rebellion that ended with the Battle of Culloden were heavily used.”

  I shifted in my seat.

  “You know something about that, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

  “Nope.”

  Richard gave me a long look before continuing. I folded my hands politely in my lap.

  “When Angus told me Roland had been asking about Scottish people hanging around the Savoy, I began thinking. I didn’t suspect Roland of having anything to do with the death of Stewart until I saw him entering the Yankee Doodle, a place he, if he was who he said he was, would have no reason to frequent. When I did, I began realizing that Walker, and even you, Mrs. MacGillivray, might be in some danger.”

  I kept my face impassive, but inside I shuddered. So, this Jim Stewart had been coming to meet me. Expecting, no doubt, to find me, a MacGillivray, eager to avenge Culloden. He would have been sadly disappointed to meet a woman with the queen’s own accent and not the slightest interest in men and their armies and their fantasies of revenge for one-hundred-fifty-year-old battles.

  “Good thing,” Ray said with a grimace. “Man must be daft.”

  “What was all that about having you charged?” Angus asked. “Who is Roland?”