Mason nodded.
“What time do you generally make deliveries?”
“When I’m needed.”
“Does anyone help you?”
“Michael, Little Bill, and Johnathon. And the night watchman rides down with me most mornings.”
“Seaward, isn’t it?”
Mason nodded. “Timothy Seaward. He has a place down by the water. It’s too noisy during the day to sleep here with the mill.”
Riot glanced around the lumber yard. It was hemmed in by a U-shaped fence of buildings, with a real fence at the mouth. The gate was currently wide open. “Does the night watchman keep a shack here?”
Mason nodded towards the south of the yard. “There’s a stove inside. No sleeping though.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason.” Riot started to leave him to his business, and then stopped himself. “Do you ever transport anything in baskets?”
“Baskets?” Mason looked at the large stacks of lumber.
“Like nails, tools, scrap wood, and the like.”
Mason unburdened himself of another load. He looked at his palm and started picking a splinter from the leather-like skin. “Timothy always takes Mr. Jones’ fishing supplies with him—back and forth. The boss doesn’t like to leave them unattended on his boat.”
“How much do those supplies weigh?”
“Not much. Maybe eighty pounds or so.”
“That’s a lot of fishing supplies.”
“Ocean fishing isn’t for the weak.”
“Are you a fishing man?”
Mason shrugged. “From solid ground. I don’t like boats.”
“I don’t either.”
19
The Lumber Yard
Smoke and incense mingled with fog, as a drone of quiet voices drifted from high windows. A voice raised from one of those windows, only to die down after a frenzy of words had been vented.
Atticus Riot looked from that angry window to the lumber yard. Three sides were penned in by high buildings, and laundry hung from every window and balcony. The fence that closed the mouth of the yard was high and solid and topped with crude iron railroad spikes.
“Any one of those buildings could have a passage into the yard,” Riot said to his companions. They stood in the mouth of an alley. Riot’s horse gently snorted puffs into the night. “There aren’t any, according to my maps,” Tim whispered.
“Farwell’s maps focus on the Quarter, not the white businesses,” Ravenwood murmured. “It’s only logical to assume that there are secret passages that remain secret.”
Tim glared up at the man. “I have more than Farwell’s maps, you know.”
“Even a particularly dull-witted simpleton can knock bricks out of the side of a building to make a new passage,” Ravenwood retorted.
“What would you know about knocking anything from anywhere, Zeph? Takes more than a good bash.”
Riot sighed, and mounted his horse. The two could argue back and forth for days. Ravenwood might have cold logic, but Tim had hard practicality and experience. The two older men butted heads like rams in rutting season. He suspected they enjoyed it.
Leaving his partners arguing at his back, he casually rode up to the lumber yard fence. When he was close enough, he swiftly gripped the horn and stepped onto the saddle. He tossed a sack over the fence, reached for the iron on top, and hoisted himself the rest of the way up. Riot slipped between the iron spikes, and landed on the other side with a thud. He staggered to his feet in time to see swift, growling shapes barreling towards him.
“Hello there, friends,” Riot whispered. He tipped back his hat, and smiled. The growls turned to wagging tails. He picked up the sack, and dumped its contents in the dirt. “As promised,” he murmured, patting the closest head.
Tense and listening for the cock of a shotgun, he moved deeper into the lumber yard. Riot puffed warm air into his hands as he walked. The fog was thick, and the chill bit down into his bones. It was ideal weather for breaking and entering, and as he sulked past the watchman’s shed, the firelight spilling through drafty cracks was reassuring.
Riot kept his eyes away from the glow, and crept to the tool shed. It was the only outbuilding that had been locked. He slipped a tension wrench into the keyhole followed by a pick. Applying a slight pressure to the wrench, he gently nudged each pin. The padlock gave way with a click.
The shed smelled of cold metal and mineral oil. It was also dark. He eased the door shut, and pulled out a small candle. Dim light touched a murderer’s arsenal, or a carpenter’s, depending what business one was in. Saws, hammers, bins of nails, clamps, and sharpeners were neatly arranged along the walls of the shed. And a line of baskets.
Riot lifted the top of the first. It contained an array of chisels. The second held rags for varnish, and the third gloves, carpenter belts, and harnesses. The last held fishing supplies. Not the small reels and lines used for river fishing, but the heavy equipment required to snag a shark.
The back wall of the shed stood against one of the surrounding buildings. It was devoid of supplies, save for a bench that held a pile of tarps. Riot crouched, and held his candle closer to the floorboards. A faint, curving mark had been scratched into the wood.
Riot picked up one side of the bench, and set it over the marks. It was an exact match. He turned his attention to the wooden wall, and knocked about gently, listening. Part of the wall was solid, but the part behind the bench was hollow. Riot pushed on the wood. A panel moved back an inch, and he slid it up like a window in its groove.
The darkness beyond smelled of sewage and rot. Dreading what he would find, Riot thrust his candle inside. Finding it empty of life, and death, he crawled into the secret room, and the source of the smell became apparent. It wasn’t from leaky pipes, but rather a board in the middle of the floor.
Riot slid it aside, and grimaced. Putting his sleeve to his nose, he carefully edged his candle closer, wary of the risk of an explosion. His dim light caught dingy brick, and an egg-shaped passageway below—the sewers. A crude ladder led down to a makeshift platform. Not an uncommon sight in the sewers. He had once tracked down a criminal who had been hiding in a space like this for a full week.
He replaced the board and turned his attention to the little room.
A thin pallet lay against the far wall, and baskets identical to those in the shed lined another. He lifted the first lid. It contained a medicinal bottle of laudanum, water, a rag, and rope.
“Lovely,” he muttered. The second basket was empty, and the third contained fishing supplies. And at the end of the line of baskets was a pair of rubber boots.
A sound whipped him around: boots crunching on gravel. Riot blew out his candle, and hurried over to the open panel. He reached through and moved the bench back to its place. The crunching grew louder. He quickly slid down the panel, and moved to the side, crouching in the hidden room with revolver drawn.
The door outside opened, boots thudded on the floorboards, and light played through the cracks in the wood. The watchman did a circuit of the shed, and then left. Riot heard the click of a padlock, and muttered an oath. Short of taking a sledge to the door, he would not be leaving the same way he had entered.
Riot holstered his revolver, and looked down at the board on the floor. Ravenwood was going to owe him a new suit.
“You smell like shit.” Tim wrinkled his nose.
“I’m surprised you can still smell at all,” Riot retorted. He looked to Ravenwood, and was about to explain what he’d found when the man stole his triumph.
“You found a hidden room that led to the sewers.”
“No,” Riot said dryly. “I fell in an outhouse.”
Tim guffawed, and quickly clapped a hand over his mouth.
“There’s a hidden panel in the tool shed that leads to a small brick room. A hole in the floor leads to the sewers.” He described the room’s contents.
“Why are there two sets of ocean tackle?” Tim asked.
“For obvious reasons
,” Ravenwood said.
Tim shot him an irritated glance. “So, should we barge the gates, and go question the watchman?” He tensed like a dog about to go in for the kill.
Ravenwood gave a shake of his head. “It may put Mr. Jones Jr. on guard.”
“We don’t know it’s him,” Riot said.
“No, we don’t,” Ravenwood conceded. “But he lied to you about not being involved in mission work. Wong Hai’s description was more than suggestive. Regardless, someone in this lumber yard is using that room to kill, and if we spook him, he may not strike again.”
“We can’t leave it unguarded, Ravenwood. He might drug the girls and do the cutting right there,” Riot said. “He could toss the entrails right into the sewers.” His own words made him sick.
“The rats would snatch that up right quick,” Tim agreed, rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Possibly,” Ravenwood conceded. But doubtful, said his tone of voice. “We’ll put a guard in the room. I assume you exited the lumber yard via the sewers. Can you find your way back?”
“I can,” Riot said.
Ravenwood looked at Tim, and smiled.
“God dammit,” Tim spat.
20
Denizen of the Night
Saturday, July 18, 1896
The lumber wagon rattled over cobblestones, through the busy streets of early morning San Francisco. The sun had not yet pierced the fog; the Silver Mistress was still heavy with sleep. She’d not stir until midday, if Riot was any judge.
His hat was pulled low, and he rode his horse at an easy pace, lagging behind so as not to attract attention. Mason and the night watchman, Seaward, rode on the seat. The wagon was empty save for a basket in the back.
Ravenwood followed in a hack, at a slower pace. He could no longer comfortably ride a horse due to an injury some years before. But that was just fine with Riot. The tall, stately older man tended to attract attention on horseback.
Mason pulled the lumber wagon to a stop at the Folsom Street wharf. Seaward hopped down and went to the back of the bed, hoisted his employer’s fishing tackle over a shoulder and headed towards the wharf.
Riot dismounted, tied the reins to a post, and followed at a discreet distance. The man boarded a moored steam trawler. Since black smoke would signal Seaward’s intention, Riot waited for the hack to roll to a stop. Ravenwood looked out the window, eyes searching the masts.
“He took the fishing supplies onto that little steam trawler,” Riot said. “I don’t think there’s a need to follow Mason.”
In answer, Ravenwood stepped out of the hack, and told the driver to wait a block away.
“I’ll take a look first.”
Ravenwood nodded. “Remember we need him alive, my boy.”
“So little faith in me.”
Ravenwood offered him his weighted walking stick, but Riot declined. It was an old exchange between mentor and apprentice. A remnant of his early days working with Ravenwood. Twenty years ago the man had recruited a cocky young gambler with two lightning-quick triggers. Time and persistence had refined him, but sometimes he wondered if Ravenwood still worried he’d fall to his gunfighting ways, which generally left a trail of dead men.
Riot strolled down the wharf towards the boat. It appeared that Seaward was inside the cabin. Keeping clear of the windows, Riot stepped over the rail.
“Ahoy, there!” Ravenwood’s voice boomed over the water. Riot’s heart leapt out of his throat. Footsteps stomped up the companionway, and Riot scrambled around to the port side of the cabin as Seaward stuck his head out of the hatch.
“Yes?”
“Are you the captain of this boat?” Ravenwood presented a stately figure. Tailored suit, tall, fine hands, and a gentleman’s stick. His shoulders were slightly slouched giving an appearance of aging fragility.
“No, sir,” called Seaward. “I mind it, is all.”
Ravenwood cupped a hand to his ear. “What was that?” he yelled. The show was repeated once more before Seaward climbed onto the wharf.
The two fell into conversation, and, taking advantage of the distraction, Riot slipped into the cabin. He went straight for the basket. Preparing himself for what he might find, he opened the lid. Fishing supplies. To see if a girl might be hidden under the tackle and line, he carefully shifted it to the side. More fishing supplies.
While Ravenwood had Seaward distracted, he searched the rest of the boat. Berths, a small galley, a head, rods and lines, and cold storage. He eyed the ominous stains in the fish locker. No one could tell the difference between human and fish blood.
As he searched, he pondered the basket. Why carry a basket back and forth every morning and evening when it could just as easily be stored in the locked shed during the day? It made sense for one of his employees to lug the thing back and forth if Jones Jr. planned a fishing trip, but why every day?
Riot hurried back to the basket. This time, he did a more thorough search. His fingertips brushed something foreign, something leather. He pulled it free. It was a thin leather book.
Ravenwood raised his voice. “Surely you wouldn’t mind showing me the way?”
The deck shuddered, footsteps clicked on the boat, and Riot spun, drawing his gun. “Stay right there,” he ordered.
Seaward froze in the cabin door. His pale face turned white as a sheet before sense slammed back into the man. He bolted.
Riot’s finger twitched, but he ground his teeth and stopped himself from shooting; instead, he lunged after the man. Seaward was quick. But the moment his boots hit the wharf, the slouched elderly gentleman straightened, and casually swung his stick. The knob caught Seaward in the gut. He doubled over, and the stick cracked down on his back. He fell onto his knees, and Ravenwood nudged him forcibly onto the dock.
Ravenwood pressed the tip of his stick against the man’s back. “Stay,” he warned. Seaward wisely decided to stay.
Timothy Seaward sat on the berth looking ill and dejected. Detainment aside, he had an unhealthy appearance about him: thinnish brown hair, dark circles around his eyes, a grayish tint to his complexion, a red nose, and a tremor to his hands. Drink had aged him prematurely. He looked to be in his forties, but Riot wondered if he was yet thirty.
Riot stood guard as Ravenwood flipped through the leather book. Riot had his gun holstered, but his jacket was tucked back, displaying the weapon for Seaward’s benefit. Riot leaned to the side, and eyed the numbers with one eye while he kept the other on the night watchman. It looked like an account book.
The records appeared to be of lumber shipments. Had Jones Jr. taken the account book along on a fishing trip, and left it behind by accident? He wouldn’t be the first man to take his work home.
“It’s time you talked, Mr. Seaward,” said Riot.
Seaward looked confused. “I don’t know what you want.”
“I’ve just said what I want,” he replied.
“But what do you want with me?” Seaward’s eyes rolled from Riot to Ravenwood, and back to the man with the gun.
“You can start by telling me why you ran,” Riot said.
“You pointed a gun at me.”
Without looking up from the book, Ravenwood clucked his tongue like a disapproving mother. It took effort not to glare at the man.
“Is this your boat?”
“It’s my boss’s boat,” Seaward said. “Mr. Jones. He lets me sleep here during the days ‘cause boats have a way of disappearing.”
“Why do you transport the basket back and forth?”
“Mr. Jones says it’s expensive fishing gear. He has me take it from the lumber yard every day. I don’t mind. The arrangement helps me save money on room and board.”
“Why not leave it in the locked shed at the lumber yard?”
Seaward picked at his teeth in thought. His gums were angry, and he looked in need of a dentist. “I don’t honestly know. I do what I’m told. Sometimes he goes fishing after work. But I figure he’s never sure. Just likes it here in case he
decides to go.”
“Do you fish with him?”
“I’ve been,” Seaward said, with a nod. “But if he goes out in the afternoon, I head to the lumber yard early.”
“Why is that account book in the basket?”
Seaward eyed the leather book, and shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Jones was going to do some work? I don’t know. I can’t read, sir. I just do what I’m told.”
“Then you don’t listen well,” Riot said. “I told you to stay right there, and yet you bolted. I’ll ask again, Mr. Seaward, and this time I’d like the truth—why did you run?”
Seaward ran a hand over his head. He was nervous. “I figured you’d kill me anyways.”
“Now why would you think that? Are you a wanted man?”
He winced. “No, sir. I thought you were a hired gun come to collect.”
“Do you have a bounty on your head?”
“I figured I might.”
Riot tilted his head. “Why would you think that?”
Seaward pressed his lips together. And Riot crossed his arms, waiting. Silence deepened. Seaward shifted, and finally Ravenwood shattered the quiet. He slapped the book closed, and his voice entered the fray. It was a low, dangerous sort of purr—like a cat sidling up to a mouse before the strike.
“As it stands right now you’ll be pinned with multiple murders lest you start talking, Mr. Seaward. If you are hanged for murder, I have no doubt that the real murderer will count himself lucky, and stop slaughtering girls. We benefit either way.”
Seaward’s mouth worked. His tongue seemed stuck in place, and then it started moving. “I don’t murder them!” Seaward burst out. “I rescue the girls. I thought you were hired by the tongs to kill me for stealing their slave girls. That’s why I ran.”
“If you rescue the girls, why drug them and stuff them in a basket?” Ravenwood asked.
“It’s easier to transport them that way—to get them away from the Quarter safely. Most of them are too frightened to keep calm.”
Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3) Page 14