Morgan feigned his acceptance. “I am sure the plan will be greatly enhanced by your additions,” he smiled.
Fang-Hua chuckled low in her throat. “It seems we have much in common, Reggie. You tell a lie nearly as well as I do. Nearly.”
She flicked her hand at the guards. “Show them in.”
Two of Fang-Hua’s guards opened the door and summoned an unknown party from the hallway. Four men entered. They were ordinary looking, ordinarily dressed, differing sizes and coloring, all white men. Their eyes scanned the room and settled on Morgan.
Fang-Hua had done a good job of selecting men who would not stand out, who could blend into the white community in Denver. Nevertheless, Morgan could tell they were accomplished killers.
“These men will comprise your team, Reggie. I will provide everything else you need—cars, firearms, money. More than enough money.”
She pointed again and one of her guards dropped a canvas bag at Morgan’s feet. He unzipped it and pulled it open. It was stuffed with bundles of cash.
When Fang-Hua nodded, the guard zipped the bag closed but left it next to Morgan.
“I will expect frequent communications, always in a manner I will dictate, Reggie. When you are close to securing the child, you will notify me. I will provide a wet nurse to care for him as you bring him to me.”
She seated herself again, regal as the witch-queen Morgan knew her to be.
“Bring my grandson to me, dear Reggie.”
The implications of failure were lost on no one.
Brian and Fiona welcomed Esther and Ava to their table on many Sundays during the fall. When the girls did not ride home with the McKennies, they often found themselves with the Medfords.
It is as though we are being knit into these families, Esther sighed in happy wonder. She held no false dreams of having a husband or family someday; it was enough for her that she and Ava could earn their keep and be included in the goings-on of the little community via these long-established families.
Esther especially loved the McKennie farm. Brian would take her “choring” after Sunday dinner. The physical labor of the farm grew on her, and she learned to bring her worst dress and change into it, gleefully dirtying her hands and skirts while caring for the animals.
The only disturbance in the happy contentment of these afternoons was when Brian and Fiona’s grandson, Connor, made an appearance. Esther might see him walking the fields, a long gun tucked under his arm, always alone except for one of Brian’s dogs. Afterwards he would slip through the door near the kitchen, laying a brace of pheasant or duck on Fiona’s wooden cutting board.
Apparently he lived part time with Brian and Fiona, helping Brian with the farm. More apparently, he did not approve of his grandparents’ association with Esther and Ava, for whenever he was in the presence of the two women he said nothing, but his eyes simmered with displeasure.
Fiona rejected Connor’s black moods and disapproving eyes. “Ach,” she said and waved her hand in dismissal, “Dinna ye be concernin’ yersel’s o’re him. He’s b’lievin’ s’ hard in th’ purity o’ some women thet he’s fergettin’ we air all sinners in need o’ grace.”
It was Meg, one Sunday, who filled in what Fiona had not. “When Connor’s sweetheart died, I’m thinkin’ he set her upon a pedestal,” she murmured to Esther. “Erica was as lovely a lass as you could be wishin’ fer, but she was not s’ perfect as he has convinced himself she was.”
Meg turned toward Esther. “You have the look of her, Esther, an’ I’m thinkin’ it galls him. If he does not mind his heart, though, and finish with th’ grieving, he’ll find himself old, angry, and alone. Bitterness has a way o’ findin’ a home in us when we don’t let go th’ anger and give it t’ the Lord.”
Esther was not convinced that Connor’s grief was his only issue. One evening after Brian brought them home, Ava’s observations captured Esther’s concerns exactly.
“It gives me chills when Connor looks at me, Esther. He reminds me of one of the men in the Bible who wanted to stone the woman caught in adultery. I look at him and it is as though he is just waiting for an opportunity to hurl a rock at my head.”
Esther sucked in her breath. Yes! That is it, she fretted. I don’t feel safe around Connor. Not safe at all.
~~**~~
Chapter 11
Roger Thomas, aka Dean Morgan, sniffed to himself as he stared around the room and its meager furnishings. The sour-faced landlady watched from the door as he examined the bed, the desk, and other furniture.
What a pleasure it must be to live with her, Morgan sneered to himself. The woman held herself rigid, arms folded across her chest, face screwed up in a perpetual scowl. He sauntered to the window and, parting the curtains, glanced out.
Ah yes! The view is every bit as good as I had hoped.
“As I said, I am a writer. I need a quiet, peaceful environment in which to work. I do not go out much and rarely have visitors,” he tapped his foot as though considering the room, “but I must have absolute peace and privacy. Tell me about the neighborhood,” he suggested.
Morgan knew he could be letting himself in for a river of drivel. It was the nugget floating among the flotsam in the drivel he hoped to glean.
“Hrmph!” His prospective landlady screwed her face up further—if that were possible. “Nothing in the neighborhood is terribly remarkable for the most part. The majority of the families are respectable. As you require, my house and the neighborhood are quiet. You will not be disturbed.”
“I prefer to take my meals in my room. You may leave a tray at the door and knock to let me know it is there.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Well, the room appears to be what I’m looking for,” Morgan drawled. If she thought he was deciding, she might come out with the dirt he waited to hear.
“Forty-five dollars a month, no meals on Sunday; one month’s rent in deposit,” she replied. “Bedding done on Tuesdays.”
“I will not require dinner on Thursdays,” he mentioned. “I dine out with colleagues each Thursday evening.”
“That will not alter the rate,” she snapped.
“Indeed, but I would wish to save you the inconvenience of preparing a meal for me.” Morgan feigned an intimate smirk for her, and she, predictably, blushed under it.
Now for the hook, Morgan thought, still smiling. “Madam, I believe you indicated that the majority of families in the neighborhood are respectable. What about the remainder of the families? Anyone I should avoid?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she glanced out the window at the perfect view of Palmer House. “I suggest you steer clear of that house, Mr. Thomas.”
“Oh? Why is that, madam?”
She leveled a reproachful gaze on him. “I do not abide gossip, mind you, Mr. Thomas. I will only say that the goings-on in that house are not proper. You’d be best to avoid all contact.”
“I thank you for your concern for me,” he replied, feigning sincerity. “I will take your advice to heart and I will take the room. I will move my bags in this afternoon.”
He removed his wallet and paused. “And you are quite sure that I have access to the telephone in the hallway?”
“Yes, provided you keep your calls to five minutes or less.”
“And I may park my motorcar in the back?”
“As I do not have a motorcar myself, you may make use of the garage off the alley. It makes no difference to me.”
“That is quite gracious of you.” He made a show of counting out the bills into the woman’s hand.
Cora DeWitt, cutting her eyes out the window again, took the money he handed to her. “I’m sure we shall get on well, Mr. Thomas.”
Morgan moved into the room that afternoon. He unpacked his clothes, a well-used typewriter, extra ribbons, carbon paper, pens, and notebooks, making a show of turning the room into a writer’s workplace.
He also unpacked a fine new telescope, its stand, and a pair of binoculars.
To that end, he carried a copy of a large, typewritten manuscript in a locking satchel. He also had the author’s first attempts tucked into the satchel. Morgan snickered. The language of the manuscript would rival a doctoral student’s dissertation, the subject abstract and highly technical. He doubted Miss DeWitt would linger long over its pages.
However, to demonstrate that he was making daily progress in his work and, thus, allay any suspicions his landlady might entertain, each day Morgan would pound on the typewriter a bit, drag out a few more pages of the manuscript, and add them to his “finished” pile. He would also wad some pages from the manuscript’s first draft and toss them into the trash can next to his desk.
But before Morgan ever left the room for more than a few minutes, he would secure whatever he wished to keep secret from her. The telescope, stand, and binoculars would all go into a locked suitcase that he would place high on a shelf in the closet.
Binoculars in hand, Morgan positioned a chair before the window and set himself to the tedious business of studying the movements of Palmer House and its inhabitants. After only an hour he frowned.
Two armed men continually patrolled the house. He knew they were armed professionals because he recognized them for the type of men they were, even from a distance.
Those in the house are on their guard, Morgan observed with a frown. Possibly they are only taking precautions because they recognize the danger Fang-Hua may present to the child. We must certainly do nothing to heighten or confirm that suspicion. It may take months, but it will be only a matter of time—time without incident—before they relax their defenses. And then . . .
Morgan observed the house for several hours. He kept a notebook of the comings and goings of the residents of the house and the guards’ rounds. Within a week or two he would have a solid record of who lived in the house and each person’s schedule—especially the Little Plum Blossom’s.
Quite late in the afternoon an automobile arrived across the street. Two men stepped out of the car, their heads turning, scanning the area around themselves, even while walking to the house. They and the house’s two guards spoke together on the house’s front porch for several minutes before the two guards turned the shift over to the new men and drove away.
The changing of the guard, Morgan correctly surmised. Movement down the street from Palmer House caught his eye.
What was this? A man lounged in a motorcar parked on the curb several houses down the block. Morgan hadn’t realized anyone was in the automobile until movement caught his eye. The man in the car sat forward, watching the same “changing of the guard” Morgan had just watched.
Someone else was watching the house across the street? Morgan pursed his lips and set himself to monitor both the house and the man in the automobile. Each day it was the same; the man arrived early and left at dark.
Who is he watching? Morgan brooded. More importantly, why?
Morgan continued his surveillance for three days but never saw the object of his mission. The girl must still be recovering from childbirth, he concluded, and is not yet leaving the house. It was Thursday. He pulled up to the room’s little desk and prepared his first weekly report to Fang-Hua.
When he finished with the report, Morgan locked the telescope and binoculars in the suitcase and stowed the case in the closet. He put the chair against the wall where it belonged, and took pains to make the desk look messy and used. He slipped down the back stairs, avoiding Miss DeWitt, and left in his motorcar for his weekly “dinner with colleagues.”
In actuality, he drove less than three minutes and parked in a garage behind an empty, derelict store. From there he walked half a block down the alley behind Acorn Street. He entered a bungalow with peeling green paint through its back door.
When he and the men Fang-Hua assigned to him had arrived in Denver, Morgan had selected this shabby, non-descript house for his crew only a few minutes from Palmer House. The hideout needed to be close, but not close enough for anyone in Palmer House or the neighborhood around the house to connect it with snatching Mei-Xing’s child. It also needed to be in an area of town where neighbors tended to mind their own business.
Morgan was more concerned, and rightfully so, over the possibility that he might be noticed or recognized rather than Fang-Hua’s men. After all, it had only been a year since Morgan and Su-Chong had escaped jail in Denver. For months, Morgan’s face had appeared in Denver papers.
Morgan, adept at disguise, had altered his appearance when he took on the identity of Roger Thomas, but he was nothing if not excessively cautious. For this reason, Morgan had one of Fang-Hua’s men, a thug who went by the name of Barnes, rent the rundown bungalow on Acorn Street. It was Barnes, not Morgan, who paid the rent and who ordered the telephone be installed. Morgan was careful to ensure that nothing in the hideaway could be tied back to him.
The prune-faced Miss DeWitt was the only person in Denver, other than Fang-Hua’s crew, who had interacted with Morgan. She would be easily disposed of at the right time and, given her charming manner, it might be weeks before she was missed.
Fang-Hua’s men were to keep themselves in readiness for Morgan’s call to action. However, with little to occupy their days other than waiting, Morgan was concerned that the men would grow bored and discontent with inactivity. Boredom could lead to imprudent behavior leading to detection and defeat.
That is not my problem, he glowered. I warned Fang-Hua that snatching this child might take months, depending on whenever the Little Plum Blossom began taking the child with her when she left the house. It was one more reason he had kept himself unassociated with the address on Acorn Street.
So, on the third evening after renting the room from Miss DeWitt, Morgan made his way to the crew’s house to submit his report to Fang-Hua. His message consisted of a few lines he would speak over a trunk call to an individual named Clemmins who would, in turn, pass it on. While he waited for an operator to put his long-distance call through to Clemmins, Barnes pulled up a chair to listen.
“Go in the kitchen,” Morgan growled.
Barnes shook his head. “Nope. Madam Chen set up two parts to her communications. You call and report. I listen and report afterwards that your report is on the up-and-up.”
Morgan stared at Barnes and silently hurled curses at Fang-Hua. Finally he shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”
When the operator reported that his party was on the line, Morgan said, “Is this Clemmins?”
“Clemmins here.”
“The chess game is progressing slowly. My opponent guards his castle with two knights at all times. He has not yet moved the queen, but it is early in the game. That is all.”
Clemmins muttered, “Thank you. Good bye,” and hung up. Morgan replaced the telephone’s receiver.
Barnes nodded. “Now my turn.”
Morgan listened as Barnes spoke to the operator and waited for a call to be placed to a Mrs. Gooding.
When the connection was made, Barnes asked, “Mom? Yeah, it’s Charles. We’re fine. How are you? Any word from Aunt Kate?”
He waited a moment. “All right. Yes. I’ll call again next week. Bye.”
Barnes turned to Morgan. “No instructions from Madam Chen.”
Morgan prepared to leave. “If nothing changes, I’ll be back the same time next week.”
Morgan frowned as he drove back to his room in Miss DeWitt’s house. The fact that Fang-Hua Chen didn’t have her men watching him day and night was concerning. Or maybe no one was watching him that he knew of?
She is confident that she can find me anytime, no matter where I run, he warned himself, so even if I do this one, last thing for her, will she keep her word? Will she let me go my way or am I as disposable as Mei-Xing?
He knew Fang-Hua better than that. I must have my plans in place and be ready when things go
awry. Already his mind was at work, piecing together his contingency plan. He would carefully gather money from caches he had established two years ago, preparing for a quick escape should the need arise.
Morgan knew he could trust no one other than himself.
Monday morning of his third week of observation, Morgan watched the usual motorcar pull up to the house across the street. This time, however, two guards escorted Mei-Xing Li down the walk from the house to the car. Mei-Xing carried a bundle that could only be an infant.
Morgan’s heart quickened when he saw her. At last!
Behind the little procession trotted a small woman with black hair. She had a large cloth bag slung about her shoulder. When she reached the motorcar, she unslung the bag and handed it into the back seat.
That week Morgan reported, “My opponent has moved his queen. He keeps her well-guarded, of course, but he cannot do so forever.”
It snowed the Saturday before Thanksgiving, a cold, wet snow that froze overnight and iced the roads and tracks in and around RiverBend. A freezing rain followed all Sunday morning and no one was taken by surprise when attendance at church was quite low.
Esther and Ava were frozen to the bone by the time they walked back to their little home at the back of the shop. They spent the afternoon and evening huddled by their stove, sipping soup or tea, and catching up on mending and alterations.
By Tuesday morning a warm wind had erased the snow and ice, and temperatures had eased higher. Esther was waiting on a customer, helping her choose a hat to match the dress she had purchased.
“When you have selected the style of hat you prefer,” Esther explained, “we will add the same trim to the hat’s brim as is on your dress. Then your outfit will be uniquely yours.”
Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5) Page 11