THE KILLING LOOK

by J. D. Rhodes

  Tremblay was shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you have any idea how insane—?”

  “What happened, Tremblay? The cutthroats you hired to do the deed turned up late? They were supposed to be done by the time we got back?”

  “All right, Mr. Cade,” the lawyer snapped. “I’ve heard quite enough slander from you.” He looked around. A well-dressed couple who’d stopped to gawk looked away and moved off quickly. “I’m an officer of the court. A well-respected member of the community—”

  “When Mr. Kwan finds out it was you who tried to put this crime off on him and his people, you’re a fucking dead man. You might rather I be the one to plug you. I hear the Chinese can get plumb inventive when it comes to making a short life seem real long.”

  Tremblay sneered. “I don’t concern myself with the Chinese.”

  Cade caught sight of the hotel’s front desk man coming down the steps toward them with definite purpose. His usual graciousness was absent. Cade turned to him. “What?” he snapped.

  The desk man gave him back glare for glare. “I wanted to inform you, sir, that your effects have been packed and are waiting for you. We request that you remove them, and yourself, immediately.”

  Cade turned back to Tremblay. “More of your fuckery? This was Marjorie’s account.”

  Tremblay’s smile was pure malicious glee. “Those accounts are now under court protection. Meaning mine. You won’t be allowed to take advantage of that poor sick woman’s frailties any longer.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  Tremblay’s smile grew wider. “I almost wish you would try. However, as that order in your pocket says, if you do try, you will be imprisoned and/or fined as provided by law in cases of contempt. Assuming, that is, that the Pinkertons I’ve persuaded Mr. Hamrick to employ as actual security don’t deal with you first.” He lifted his hat in an ironic salute. “Goodbye, Mr. Cade.” He walked away, never looking back, confident in a way that only a man who knows that money and the law will keep him safe can be.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  She hadn’t wanted to sleep; she suspected without knowing for certain that John had the key to her bedroom, and she dreaded the thought of him coming upon her helpless. But she’d been up for hours, her anger as hot as a steamship boiler. With nothing happening, no sound on the other side of the door, no John upon whom to vent her rage, she soon found it flagging and dying, her energy going with it. That was the plan, she realized. It was a siege. And the key to a siege was to wait out the besieger. Her will was stronger than her husband’s. She knew it. She wasn’t going to sign his damned papers and give up her father’s legacy. Still, as the hours dragged on, her eyes became heavy. Finally, she propped herself up on the bed, pillows at her back, and let her head fall back against the wall as she dozed lightly.

  She dreamed of ships, the fast clippers that her father had commanded, then commissioned to be built, flying like birds before the strong Pacific wind, bringing tea, spices, and other goods from the Orient. Each of the great, sleek clippers bore their ornately carved figureheads, a strong, resolute feminine figure, jaw set, staring into the distance and daring the sea to do its worst. In her half-dreaming state, she became one of those figureheads, but alive, her sights set on the horizon, the wind blowing through her hair. Then the wind caressing her hair became hands, male hands, his hands, caressing her, making her feel things she hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever…

  A harsh rapping on the door jarred her out of her dream. “Marjorie.”

  John’s voice. She had never hated a voice as much as she hated that one at that moment.

  “Go away,” she called out, her voice rusty with sleep.

  “There’s no need for this.” John’s voice was calm, reasonable, the voice of a parent speaking to a willful child. If she’d had her shotgun at that moment, she’d have picked it up and blown him in half.

  “I agree,” she said to the closed door. “Let me take my things and go. With Violet.”

  He chuckled. “Surely you don’t think I’d let my child go off to who knows where with a madwoman.”

  She tried to keep her voice steady. If she gave voice to her rage, she’d just play into his hands. “I’m not mad, John. You know that.” She couldn’t resist the next jibe. “If there’s anyone who needs to worry about losing his mind, John, it’s you. Given what we know about the effects of the French pox.” She sharpened her tone. “Have you caught it again, John? Have your visits to the Barbary Coast caught up with you again?”

  There was silence from the other side of the door. Then, in a tight, high voice, he said, “Sign the goddamn papers, Marjorie.”

  “Go to hell,” she answered.

  “The action in lunacy has already been filed.” His voice had regained its prior calm. “And an injunction against your cowboy. If he comes anywhere near you, or me, or this house again, he’ll be thrown in jail. If my men don’t kill him first. I suspect he knows that. He’s gone from your life, dear. Forever. There’ll be no rescue for you.”

  She was composing a retort when she heard John’s footsteps moving off down the hallway.

  No rescue, she thought. She felt the wound in her heart at his words about Cade. Then she took a deep breath. Well, then. I’ll just have to rescue myself. She looked around the room. Her eye fell on the servant’s door across the room. Bridget had occasionally brought her meals in her room up those stairs. She shook her head ruefully as she realized she’d never considered that those stairs ran both ways, that they could be used for more than bringing her whatever she desired.

  The door opened with a slight creak, and Marjorie froze. There was no sound from below. She picked her way slowly down the stairs, wincing at every slight squeak of the old stair treads. She paused at the tiny second story landing, her hand on the door before she pulled it away. As much as she wanted to go to her daughter, she had to make sure there was a clear escape route. There wouldn’t be much time to make their exit. Down the stairs, she thought. Out the back door. To the stables…and then what? She didn’t know, and that realization made her want to sit down on the steps and weep. But she straightened her spine and crept down the steps to the first floor. At the bottom of the stairs was the door she assumed opened onto the kitchen. She put her ear against the rough wood and listened. What came through, muffled by the thickness of the door, was a rough male voice, one she didn’t recognize. “Where the hell are those sandwiches?”

  A familiar voice answered: Bridget’s. “You just settle yourself, Mister. They’ll be ready when they’re ready.”

  There was a harsh scraping sound, like a chair being shoved backward, then a cry from Bridget.

  “You watch your goddamn mouth, you Paddy bitch,” the unfamiliar voice grated. “Or you’ll get a lot worse than that.”

  Marjorie leaned her forehead against the door. The brutes John had hired from the notorious Pinkerton Detective Agency were guarding the back way and, she assumed, the front. There was no way out that she could see. She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t going to give up. There had to be a way. In her mind, she heard her father’s voice. There’s a way through, Margie, he’d tell her whenever there were setbacks or reversals in the company’s business. Always a way past the rocks. She slowly ascended the back stairs, her mind working, seeking the way through.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Cade ignored the contemptuous looks from the formerly respectful front desk man. “Hope you weren’t expecting a tip,” he said.

  The man didn’t answer, just pointed imperiously toward the door.

  Cade picked up his trunk and hoofed it.

  Outside, he stopped to get his bearings. He had a few dollars left in his pocket, so he wasn’t going to be sleeping in the street. He’d already decided he was going to go to Marjorie, that slick lawyer and his papers be damned. He pulled the sheet of heavy stationery out of his pocket and examined it. The legal verbiage was thick and dense, and Cade could comprehend
about every fourth word. He let the paper fall into the street. First thing I need, he thought, is a place to lay up and figure the next move. He thought of Captain Alton and the Marjorie Ann. He’d been told to stay away from Marjorie’s property as well, but he had a feeling that if Alton knew what was going on, he’d have a thing or two to say about it. He was sweating a bit with the effort of hauling the trunk down to the livery he’d used earlier, but it didn’t take long for him to hire a modest wagon to take him down to the wharf.

  What he saw when he got there, however, made him draw up short. The wharf was being patrolled by a pair of characters whose store-bought suits and bowler hats couldn’t cover up the air of thuggish menace they gave off. He reined in the horse and regarded the Marjorie Ann from down the street, trying to look like just another teamster come down to haul his cargo from the wharf to its buyer. He noticed that the well-dressed bruisers didn’t venture up the narrow gangplank onto the ship. The big mute Russian he’d seen guarding that drawbridge stood at his post, arms across his chest, glaring down at them. They conspicuously took no notice.

  “Pinkertons,” a voice at Cade’s left elbow said. He looked down. Alton was standing there, staring at the wharf and the guards set there. “On my wharf.” He hocked and spat into the street, then took a long, angry pull on his pipe.

  “But not on your ship, I notice.”

  “Pah!” Alton spat again. “Not while I command her.” He seemed to sag a bit. “Which may not be long.”

  “So, what the hell’s going on?”

  Alton looked up at him. “I was hoping you could help explain that. Your colored fellah said you’d been arrested and that some sort of legal process was goin’ on.”

  “Yeah. I think I might have some skinny you’d find useful.”

  Alton tapped the ashes of his pipe on the heel of his boot. “Well, you can explain it to me over a drink.” He nodded to a long, low building near the wharf. “Tie up at the warehouse over there, and meet me at the foot of Meig’s Wharf. At Cobweb Palace.”

  ***

  The Cobweb Palace was true to its name. The boxy, two-story wood-frame structure was nothing much to look at on the outside, but the inside was like something from a fever dream. Cade entered between a pair of intricately carved totem poles, grotesque yet strangely beautiful faces leering at him from either side. Inside the barroom, actual spiderwebs festooned the ceiling, draped like ragged lace across the expanse and drooping along the walls. Alongside the bar arced huge walrus tusks and whale teeth, delicately engraved with scrimshaw. A monkey shrieked at him from a cage next to the bar, and a parrot flew free inside the confines of the high ceiling. “Rum and Gum!” it called out. “Rum and Gum!” The place was largely empty this early, with only a few solitary drinkers at the bar and a trio at a table near the monkey cage, two of whom appeared to be face down asleep at the table.

  Cade spotted Alton sitting at a table near the bar, a pitcher of beer and two full glasses sitting in front of him. He took a seat. “Lately I’ve started to wonder,” he said, “if this place is a city or a goddamn lunatic asylum.”

  Alton smiled and began packing his pipe. “I allow as sometimes it’s a bit hahd to tell.” He struck a lucifer and lit the pipe, taking his time to do it properly. “Now,” he said when he was satisfied, “tell me why I have ahmed brutes patrolling the wharf alongside my ship.”

  Cade had been steadily working at his beer while Alton lit up. He put the half-empty glass down. “Hamrick’s making a move on Marjorie’s property. He’s got some slick lawyer filing papers.”

  “Hmmm.” Alton took a drink and a draw on his pipe. “The word ‘papers’ can covah a lot of ground, Mr. Cade.”

  “For one thing, he’s trying to have the court rule she’s crazy. So he can take control of her business. Including this one. And it’s not the first flim-flam he’s tried.”

  “Go on.”

  “You remember that McMurphy fella?”

  Alton nodded.

  “It’s like I told you before. This McMurphy had a scheme to kidnap Hamrick’s wife and child. Hold them for ransom. He thought he was paying the Chinese to pull it off. But it was Hamrick’s lawyer Tremblay who was the one hiding behind a screen. Pretending to be from the tongs. I think the deal was to kill Marjorie and her daughter. Blame the Chinese, and probably get rid of McMurphy afterward.”

  “Interesting.” Alton didn’t seem perturbed. Cade knew from dealing with them in the Army that New Englanders could be a close-mouthed bunch, but Alton’s lack of apparent concern was starting to annoy him. The Yankee captain peered at him through the cloud of smoke that was beginning to gather around him. “And you put a stop to that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So now John’s trying this legal dodge.” He made a sour face at the word “legal.” “Nevah cared much for this Tremblay fella, I must say. Tell me, what else has been filed?”

  Cade hesitated, then blurted out, “An order for me to stay away from Hamrick and all his property.”

  “Ah. And, I suppose, his wife.”

  Cade looked away. “Yeah.”

  Alton nodded sagely. “Now we get to the core of the mattah, I think.” He took another contemplative drag on the pipe, then sighed. “Marjorie was a willful child. It only got more pronounced as she got older. I tried to tell her father it would get her into trouble. Of course, he just laughed and told me that was what she was going to need to run the business.” He looked at Cade. “I’m sorry you nevah got to meet Mistah Townsend. I believe the two of you would have liked each other immensely.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” Cade said, “but we’ve got a problem now. You said there wasn’t much you wouldn’t do for Marjorie. For her daddy’s sake. Will you help her now?”

  Alton looked mildly surprised. “Of course. Did you have any doubt?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So,” Alton drained his glass, poured another from the pitcher, “how do we go about this?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “Marjorie.”

  She was standing at the bedroom window, looking down on the courtyard behind the house, considering how she might best get her daughter and herself down from the third floor and not coming up with any ideas. The sound of her husband’s voice made her teeth clench with rage. She decided not to answer. It didn’t seem to make any difference. He went on.

  “I’ve brought you something to eat.” He paused. “I won’t be accused of starving you out.”

  It was so like him. Looking at everything though the lens of how it would be regarded by their peers. Or those he wanted to be peers. She shook her head. There was no denying she was hungry. And thirsty. God, she wasn’t just thirsty, she was absolutely parched. Still, she refused to answer.

  “I’m just going to leave this outside the door. Don’t worry. Bridget prepared it.” Then she heard his steps moving away.

  Marjorie stood by the window and stared at the door. She didn’t know if it was her hungry imagination or if she was actually catching the scent of roast chicken. Legs shaking, she crossed the room and hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. She put her ear to the door. There was no sound on the other side. Slowly, she opened the door.

  A silver tray sat on the floor. The aroma of food was stronger now, and she knew it wasn’t her imagination. Her mouth watered, not just for the smell of the food, but at the sight of the two crystal carafes, one of water, one of a deep red wine, that sat beside the covered plate. She looked around, up and down the hallway, hating the way it made her feel furtive, like a hunted animal. She dragged the tray into the room, not picking it up until she’d locked the door securely again.

  She picked up the tray and carried it to the table. The smell of food was overpowering, but the thirst was even more compelling. She poured water into the deep glass tumbler provided on the tray and drank deeply. She pulled the cover off the plate and saw the roast chicken she’d smelled earlier, flanked with a mound of mashed pota
toes with a craterful of gravy in the center and a pile of green beans glistening from the slab of fatback nestled at their center. She poured the tumbler full of wine and fell on the meal with a will. It took almost no time for her to clean the plate, drain the carafe of water, and make a serious dent in the wine.

  At first, she thought the drowsiness that fell over her was a result of how she’d gorged on the heavy meal. But the lethargy dragged and sucked at her like an undertow, until she realized what he’d done to her. She didn’t know if it was the water or the wine he’d drugged. “You son of a bitch…” were her last slurred words, spoken to the empty room, before she passed out.

  ***

  Cade sat in a second-floor window of the abandoned house behind the Hamrick mansion, surveying the place with the eye of a besieger. From time to time, his eyes strayed to the window of Marjorie’s bedroom. There was no movement there. He caught glimpses of a stocky man walking back and forth across the back courtyard, carrying a rifle at port arms. One of the Pinkertons. His eyes never stopped moving around the narrow space. Cade had seen more than a few sentries in his time, and this one seemed to know his business.

  Samuel came out the back door and headed for the stable. The Pinkerton man approached him, all swagger and aggression. Samuel drew to a halt, his head bowed submissively as the Pinkerton stood over him, hands on hips. He could see the black man’s lips moving as he responded to the Pinkerton man’s questions. Finally, the Pinkerton seemed to be satisfied and he let Samuel pass, but not without a shove in the direction he was going anyway. Another big man Cade didn’t recognize appeared in the back door and called something to the one who’d been questioning Samuel. That one headed on in the house. And why not, Cade thought. It was daytime. Only a fool would attack a house in broad daylight.