The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  “So you think Scott’s niece might’ve been sent out of the state?”

  “It could explain why we’ve found no trace of her here,” the detective said.

  “How likely is it she’s still alive?” he asked bluntly. He hated saying the words in front of Scott, but it had to be asked.

  “If they saw a way to make money from her, they’ll have treated her well,” Harris said. “If she’s part of this thing, her odds of being alive are better than if she isn’t.”

  People undoubtedly disappeared in cities like Denver all the time. He could think of a number of ways a baby could vanish, none of them pleasant. “Why the urgent telegram?”

  “The more time passes, the harder she’ll be to trace. And I don’t have the resources to follow the few leads I do have.”

  “And you hadn’t heard any of this when we were here in December?” Scott asked.

  “We knew about the baby farms, but to be blunt, three years is too long for them to hold onto a child if no-one’s paying the bills.”

  Scott’s face went white. “This is my niece we’re talking about. And maybe my sister, too. If we don’t find little Sarah, I don’t think Lizzie is going to make it.”

  Granville hadn’t known that Scott realized how precarious Lizzie’s attachment to living was. Without her child, she could too easily give in to her wasted body and the siren call of opium. “And what leads do you have now?” he asked Harris.

  The detective pulled a file off a stack on one corner of his desk, flipped it open. Pulling out a sheet half covered with spiky writing, he handed it to Scott.

  “These are the orphanages we talked to. They’re all legit, and none of them had any record of a child who could be your niece. These ones,” and he handed him another list, slightly longer, “are other facilities we know about—they’re legal too, but they skirt the edge of the law. Again, no child resembling your niece.”

  Scott’s gaze was fixed on the pages. “Thanks.”

  “Also, a couple of names keep coming up in relation to the smuggling; Dale Androchuck and Peter Mather. Mather is a low-rent crook. Androchuck is of the same ilk, but brighter. And I hear your Jackson had dealings with Androchuck when he was in this part of the world.”

  “So where do I find these two?” Scott growled.

  “You’re keeping in mind that murder is still murder in this town, no matter the reason.”

  “I’ll make sure he remembers,” Granville said.

  “See that you do.” Harris pinned them both with a hard look, then relented. “You can probably find Mather at a dive called the Red Mule. You know it?”

  Granville nodded, remembering a dimly lit speakeasy, the roughness of the whiskey only exceeded by the roughness of the clientele. Perfect hunting grounds. He glanced over at Scott, who grimaced. “We know it.”

  “Watch your back,” the detective said.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Trent said suddenly, from his position behind Granville.

  Granville started. There was a warning note in the boy’s voice and his gaze was hard and flat. Aimed at Harris?

  Granville’s gaze fixed on the detective, who had a half frown between his brows and looked as if he was trying to remember something. What was going on here?

  “Is there anything else you might not have mentioned?” Scott asked into the ensuing silence. His tone made the words an insult.

  What was this? Scott was desperate to find his missing niece, but where was this animosity towards Harris coming from?

  He knew his partner and the detective had known each other before—Scott had said as much when he introduced them last year—but “we worked together, once” didn’t explain the undercurrents in Scott’s voice now.

  Looking from one to the other, he wondered just what his partner had neglected to tell him. This time.

  Scott’s innate privacy and determination to protect those he considered his to protect had nearly got him hung for murder a few weeks ago. What were they likely to get them into now?

  Granville needed have a long chat with his partner, and soon.

  His gaze slid to Trent, who was watching Harris intently. And the boy, too.

  THIRTY

  “I thought you cared about becoming a typewriter?”

  Emily started and her index finger jammed between the ‘F’ and the ‘G’. “Darn,” she muttered, and looked up to meet Laura’s accusing stare. “No, it isn’t that,” she said, tripping a little over the words. “I was ill.”

  Ignoring the looks the other students were giving her, Laura gave Emily a frigid look. “I know the truth, remember? You’ve been gone for three and a half days, and you just come back and start typing without a word? Are you forgetting I helped you?”

  Emily glanced around and was relieved to see that their teacher was busy on the far side of the room, helping Andy Riggs. She let out a little breath. “You’re right, you deserve the truth, but not now. Wait until Miss Richards calls a break.”

  “I feel faint,” Laura said, putting the back of her hand against her forehead. “Help me to the ladies room?”

  “Yes, of course,” Emily said, standing up and casting a glance around. “Only please try to be a little less dramatic or she’ll guess we’re up to something.”

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Laura turned to Emily. “So?”

  Emily’s gaze had gone to the mirror behind Laura, where one of the doors was not entirely closed. Holding a finger to her lips, she tiptoed over and eased it open.

  No one was there. She tipped her head towards the other door. Laura nodded, and banged on the door.

  “Excuse me. I’m feeling ill and need to get in.”

  Nothing.

  Laura banged again, without result. With a half smile at Emily, she twisted the knob. It was locked. There was someone inside.

  Emily touched Laura’s arm and gestured towards the long hallway that ran to the front of the building and the interior stairwell. Laura nodded, and the two girls tiptoed out.

  Stopping halfway down the stairs, out of sight from both directions, Emily began to tell Laura everything that had happened, speaking in a hushed tone that had the other girl leaning towards her. When she finished, Laura’s eyes were huge.

  “No wonder you missed class,” she said. “I’m surprised you’re here today.”

  “We reached a dead end,” Emily said. “No new leads on Mary, and not even a name for her uncle.”

  “You said you had a photo of this Mary. May I see it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Emily reached into her silk bag and removed the photo, handing it to Laura.

  Laura glanced at the photo, then looked harder, carefully examining each feature. “But I know her!” she said. “Or at least I think I do. The woman I’m thinking of is somewhat older.”

  “You recognize her? This photo was taken some five years ago.”

  “That sounds right. It’s Mary Pearson, right?”

  So her last name was Pearson. “Yes! But why do you know her? And when did you meet?”

  “She was one of the other maids at the Howe’s ball on New Year’s Day.

  “Really?” Emily searched her memory, but couldn’t remember seeing anyone that resembled the photo she held. “Do you know how to find her?”

  Laura shook her head. “We were hired just for the evening. I haven’t seen her since. She seemed nice enough, though she kept herself to herself.”

  But if Mary’s uncle had enough money for Mary to leave Mrs. Raynor’s employ, why had Mary taken that job? “Who hired you?”

  “Mrs. Howe herself. She advertised in the World.”

  “So Mrs. Howe might have a current address for Mary.” She gave Laura a rueful smile. “Here I’ve been looking everywhere for information on her, and you knew all the time. I should have shown you the photo days ago.”

  Laura looked pleased and a trifle smug. “But Emily, what about the men who killed the photographer, and tried to kill your fiancé?”


  “We’ve no leads at all.”

  “Except whatever information our classmates might have.”

  Emily stared at Laura. “You’re right. I was forgetting about our Mr. Riggs. You’ll help me?”

  “Yes, of course. Where do we start?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Which one the three do you think is the weakest?”

  Laura considered her for a moment. “You really care about Mr. Granville, don’t you?”

  Emily could only nod.

  “And, fingers up,” said Miss Richards. “Please take out your notebooks.”

  Emily sat back with a sigh, flexing sore fingers. It was a good thing she was better at learning shorthand than she was at typewriting, or she’d probably quit, and she hated giving up on things.

  At least the odd squiggles invented by Mr. Richard’s friend Isaac Pitman were interesting. When she knew enough of them, she’d be able to take down whole conversations without missing a word. She could envision herself interviewing someone for a story or capturing every word as she interviewed a suspect.

  Emily’s pencil, which had been flying to capture the symbols that Miss Richards was putting up on the chalkboard, suddenly faltered. Could that be why she was learning this Pitman method so easily, because she saw a purpose for it?

  She had a sudden image of O’Hearn when she had first met him, hammering away on the keys of a large Underwood in the newsroom of the World. Reporters had to typewrite their own stories.

  If she decided she wanted to be a reporter, she had to learn to be as good a typewriter as she was a stenographer. And if she were working with Granville, she’d need to transcribe her shorthand, wouldn’t she?

  Emily bent to her typewriter with renewed concentration.

  After that, typing practice went surprisingly well, as if the break from classes had somehow helped her brain integrate what her fingers already knew. Waiting for the luncheon break was hard, though.

  When it was finally called, Emily and Laura raced to get their jackets and followed Wally Sutton down the stairs, joining the lunchtime crowd walking briskly along Hastings. Once Wally was out of sight of the building, they came up on either side of him.

  “Wally? I mean, Mr. Sutton,” Laura said. “Could we speak with you a moment?”

  He looked from Emily to Laura and flushed. “Miss Turner. Miss Kent,” he said with a stammer. “Why are you—I mean what do you—I mean…”

  “We wanted to talk to you, Mr. Sutton,” Emily said. “We felt we could trust you.”

  His flush deepened. “Me?”

  “Yes,” Laura said with a smile. “I’ve been watching you, and of all our classmates, I told Emily you were the one we could trust.”

  “But…”

  “Is Laura right? Can we trust you?” Emily asked before he could summon his arguments.

  “Well…”

  “We need a man’s help,” Laura said, putting her hand on his arm. “I fear it is dangerous for just the two of us.”

  “Dangerous?” He looked like he wanted to run, but someone had trained him too well to allow him to leave two women on their own.

  “It’s just information we need, but ladies can’t ask the questions that need to be asked.”

  “Oh. Questions.”

  He seemed incapable of forming a complete sentence, but at least he hadn’t said no. This was the tricky bit. Emily glanced at Laura, who gave her a little nod. “I know you’re friends with Mr. Riggs. His father is involved in a plot against my fiancé.”

  Sutton’s eyes widened, and she thought for a moment he might bolt despite his training. “But…”

  Laura put her hand on his arm again. “It’s why you are the perfect person to help us. You’ll be helping Mr. Riggs too.”

  “How will it help him?”

  At least it was a complete sentence. This might just work. “Once my fiancé is—gone,” Emily swallowed hard. “The man who hired Mr. Riggs’ father will have to deal with everyone involved.”

  He went pale. “Deal with?”

  Really, this was too easy. “Kill them. Get rid of anyone who knows of the conspiracy. My fiancé is very well connected, and his family will not let his death go unavenged, when they learn the truth.”

  “It frightens me, all this violence. Where will it end?” Laura had her hand on his arm again. “I’m so glad we have you to turn to.”

  He gulped, then his shoulders straightened. “How can I help?”

  Emily thought it sounded more like a plea than a declaration, but he hadn’t said no. “We need the name of the man who is really behind all this. He will quickly be arrested, saving both my fiancé and your friend’s father.”

  “That’s all you want? Just his name?”

  She didn’t think it was going to be quite that simple, but Emily nodded. “Just the name. And where he can be found.”

  Wally Sutton stood a little taller. “I can do that.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  In the run-down hotel room they’d found just off Market Street in downtown Denver, Granville, Scott and Trent had showered and changed. Granville could have used a couple of hours sleep, but he was anxious to get started, now they finally were here. Finding the child was more important that sleep.

  He looked from Scott to Trent. “Which one of you wants to tell me what’s going on with Harris?”

  Trent picked at a strip of wallpaper that was dangling forlornly near his head. “What d’you mean?” he asked.

  Scott just shrugged.

  Granville knew from experience that getting either of them to talk was going to be a struggle.

  And he didn’t have the time.

  “Never mind.” He glanced at Scott. “D’you know anything about either of these men? Androchuck or Mather?”

  “I’ve heard of Mather,” Scott said, looking up from the lists he was still studying. “I knew his cousin, back in Chicago. Craddock used to run with him.”

  “Which could explain how Craddock found out what Jackson had done with the child.”

  “Assuming he wasn’t bluffing.”

  “Assuming that, of course.”

  “He didn’t tell you anything? Craddock, I mean,” Trent asked.

  “Not a word. Just looked at me and sniggered,” Scott said.

  “Even though he faced the noose?” Trent said. “I thought he was trying to work a deal?”

  “Yeah, around Gipson’s crimes.”

  “But Gipson’s out,” Trent said.

  “Exactly. And Craddock’s still alive. With us still not knowing what he knows about little Sarah, if he indeed knows anything.”

  “But that’s wrong.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So do we start with the lawyer Benton told us about or the Red Mule?” Granville asked.

  Scott looked at him. “I need a drink. You?”

  He nodded. “Think you’ll recognize Mather?”

  “If he’s anything like his cousin, he’ll have ears like jug handles.”

  “We need a plan.”

  “You go in low, I’ll go in high,” Scott said.

  “Not that kind of plan. We won’t get answers from dead men. And I think Harris was serious about arresting us if there’s any shooting.”

  Scott muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothin’.”

  His partner wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Granville glanced at Trent, but the boy was seemingly intent on re-loading his rifle. Great. Neither of them was in any hurry to admit what was going on.

  “Then let’s go,” he said.

  The Red Mule was every bit as sleazy as Granville had remembered. Only half-full, it was still noisy and so smoky it was like seeing the room through a thick London fog. Patrons stood two deep along the bar, casting suspicious glances at the three of them. This was not a place to ask too many questions.

  On his left, Scott’s eyes were scanning the room, while on his right he sensed Trent’s tension. “Scott?”
>
  “Nothing. No-one I recognize.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Beer.”

  “Why don’t you and Trent find somewhere to stand.” Granville said, and made his way to the bar.

  After ignoring him just long enough to make it clear he was an outsider, the bartender finally turned to him. “Yeah?”

  “Three beers.”

  “Denver Ale?”

  “Fine. And can you point me towards Mather?”

  The man’s small eyes ran over him. “Not sure he’s here. You got business with him?”

  “A message from his cousin.”

  The bartender nodded towards a tall table in the corner, where three men stood. They’d been there awhile, judging by bottles covering the tabletop. “Yellow-haired one’s Mather.”

  Obviously jug-ears did not run in his side of the family. “Thanks.” Dropping two coins on the grimy bar, Granville made his way back to where Scott and Trent stood.

  They’d chosen a spot that let them keep their backs to the wall and their eyes on the door. In a place like this, it was only prudent.

  “Mather’s over there in the corner,” he said, low-voiced, handing them each a bottle. “You want to talk to him? I told the bartender we had a message from his cousin.”

  “Since I’m the one who knows the cousin, I’d better do it,” Scott said.

  “Keep in mind that we need information more than you need vengeance.”

  “You coming or not?”

  With a shrug, he followed Scott across the room.

  “Mather?” Scott stood looking down on the narrow features and bleached looking hair of the man who might be able to lead him to his niece. Might have sold his niece.

  “Yeah?”

  Granville noted the man’s hand moving to rest near his gun, the wary alertness of his two companions, moved to stand at Scott’s elbow.

  “I knew your cousin Dean back in Chicago,” Scott was saying.

  Mather grunted.

  “He said if I was ever in town and looking to make some money, you had a sweet deal going.”

  Granville could only hope that the cousins still shared information on their various deals.