Celia’s heart pounded in her chest. Her hair was coming unwound from beneath her hat, and she was certain she’d kicked mud onto her skirt. Addie would have a fit when Celia got home.
They were approaching Montgomery Street on the Barbary’s far edge. A heavy-shouldered stevedore whistled at Celia as she rushed along. Mariners milled about in the streets, headed for the deadfalls and brothels that now lay behind Celia: Kanaka sailors put in on a Sandwich Islands whaler; Canadians off steamers loaded with timber; olive-skinned South Americans from ships loaded with coffee, tobacco, and cocoa. Not the sort of neighborhood Hubert Lange would like his daughter to frequent.
Suddenly, Tessie halted and darted another glance around her. Celia squeezed behind a pile of lumber propped against a wall and pressed a hand to her side where she had gotten a cramp. Two doors down, a tavern girl leaned in a doorway leading into a dim basement liquor den, her arms folded over a turquoise silk dress, its best days long past. She slid Celia a curious look. Beyond the woman, the proprietor shouted at a drunk sprawled on the sawdust-covered floor. With a smile for the girl, whose dark eyes widened, Celia stepped out from her hiding spot and rushed into the alleyway she was certain Tessie had gone down. There, in a shadowy doorway, she was talking with a man—
Suddenly, Celia was grabbed from behind and yanked backward, pain shooting through her shoulders.
Bloody hell.
CHAPTER 6
“What in . . . Don’t make me curse, Mrs. Davies,” the man’s voice hissed in her ear. “But what in God’s green earth are you doing here?”
“That hurt, Mr. Greaves.” Celia squirmed in his grasp. A pair of men entering a nearby oyster shop looked over.
“Hey!” one shouted, and started toward them. He must have decided Celia wasn’t a prostitute or a tavern girl, based on her clothing, and needed rescuing.
Mr. Greaves released his hold. “Just a little misunderstanding,” he said, raising his hands.
“Yes. A misunderstanding,” Celia grumbled. She forced a smile and thanked her rescuer. The stranger doffed his cap and joined his mate in the oyster shop.
“There was no need to manhandle me, Detective,” she protested, straightening her cloak.
“Did you spot the pickpocket following you?” he asked sternly.
Celia looked around. “What pickpocket?”
“That’s what I figured,” he said. “And what are you doing in the Barbary without a guard? I thought you had a whole passel of constables to show you around.”
He shifted his stance so his back was to the rough wooden clapboard of the adjacent building. Policemen must always seek to protect their backs, afraid that someone might sneak up behind them and catch them unawares.
“I didn’t have time to seek one out,” Celia answered in a tone as sarcastic as his, tucking loose hair into the pins holding her chignon in place. “And your attempt at protection made me lose sight of who Tessie Lange was talking with.”
His brow furrowed. He did look quite fierce when he did that. “You might want to explain yourself.”
“I went to visit the Langes. The shop was closed—earlier than usual—and I spotted Tessie hurrying away. It looked as though she didn’t wish to be recognized. Since her actions struck me as odd, I thought to follow her. I did not see the harm.”
“You did not see . . .” The detective groaned. “I thought I told you not to go snooping around in Chinatown, Mrs. Davies.”
“This is not Chinatown, Mr. Greaves.”
He was not amused. “Listen, ma’am, if you have any information or suspicions, you need to share them with me, not chase them down yourself. I am responsible for this investigation, not you. Promise me you’ll stop interfering.”
She hesitated. She dared not tell him about the request she had made of Owen; he would only grow angrier.
“Promise me,” he repeated.
“Mr. Greaves, don’t force me to make promises I shan’t keep. Li Sha came to me for help, and my brother-in-law appears to be the primary suspect in her death, though he has yet to be arrested.” It was only a matter of time until he was; she was certain of it. “I have a responsibility to them both, and I was not attempting to interfere. I followed Tessie because I didn’t have time to come to the station to inform you of her behavior. Although apparently I wouldn’t have found you there since you are also in the Barbary, skulking down back streets.”
“It’s my job to skulk,” he said, and headed toward the alley exit.
“I cannot help but wonder, though, why Tessie would come here,” said Celia.
On the far side of Montgomery loomed great buildings of commerce and shops selling fine goods to the upper crust of San Francisco. Just behind the side they stood on, though, were the stews and taverns. It was no place for a proper young woman. No place for Celia, either. She had not been thinking clearly to have followed Tessie here with evening approaching and no police escort. She was fortunate to have been accosted by Nicholas Greaves and not the pickpocket she hadn’t noticed.
“What did the man she was talking to look like?” he asked.
“He had reddish hair, a beard, I think, and the most outlandish yellow-and-red waistcoat. Do you know him?”
“Might be a shock to discover, ma’am, that I don’t know every man who lives near the Barbary.”
“I shall endeavor to recover from such a revelation, Mr. Greaves.” They stepped onto the broad pavement of Montgomery Street, leaving behind the sounds of laughter and arguments, jangling music starting up. “You do realize how very close we are to the wharf where Li Sha was found.”
“Yes, I do,” he said stiffly.
“Am I annoying you, Mr. Greaves?”
He gazed over at her, an eyebrow arching. “What do you think?”
She continued asking questions anyway. “Have you discovered where Li Sha was staying in the days before her murder?”
“I did just tell you this is my investigation, didn’t I?”
“It is a simple question.”
He muttered beneath his breath, words she could not discern. “Not at the Chinese Mission and not at the Langes’.”
“I’m seeing a patient tomorrow morning, Dora Schneider, who knew Li Sha. They met at a charity event I organized last autumn. Dora talked to Li Sha when everyone else ignored her. Perhaps she will have some information.”
Mr. Greaves halted. “Do you ever intend to listen to me, Mrs. Davies?”
“I will let you know what Dora has to tell me. I promise,” she added.
“Just like you were going to tell me about Tessie Lange’s odd behavior, I suppose.”
“Do not say you do not trust me,” she responded with a faint smile. “I would be most hurt.”
Which made him laugh.
• • •
Nick watched Mrs. Davies stride up the road. He worked to convince himself he was standing there because he half expected her to take a detour and continue her pursuit of Miss Lange. To be honest, he was actually standing there to catch a final glimpse of her before he continued on his business. She had the sort of carriage women got from balancing books on their heads, but she was spit and fire behind those sophisticated British vowels. And he had a soft spot for spit and fire.
Tugging his hat lower and turning on his heel, he headed for Pacific Street, the destination he’d been bound for before he’d spotted Celia Davies racing along Kearney like a coonhound on a scent.
Nick scanned the road, which was crowded with soaks and gamesters and thieves, noting the dour men who studied him through open doorways and around the edges of faded velvet curtains, prepared to chain and bolt their doors if the cop—they knew he was police even though he didn’t wear a gray uniform with an obvious badge—made a move to barge inside and start throwing the law around. Since the chief of police rarely received any complaints about Barbary crime from the folk
s who mattered to him, the proprietors weren’t much at risk from Nick doing any such thing.
He located the saloon he sought, BAUMAN’S painted on a wooden sign tacked to the lintel. Unable to choose its neighbors, it was located next door to a brothel with the unoriginal name of Mrs. Brown’s House of Joy. One of the brothel residents reclined within the depths of the curtained doorway, smoking a cigarillo, her skirts hitched up to reveal red petticoats and shapely bare ankles, a sliver of early-evening sun warming her skin.
She noticed him stopped on the street and stubbed out the cigarillo on the stone step before scrambling to her feet. She was pretty, young, with thick brown hair and big brown eyes. Part Mexican, he’d guess, and not so long on the streets that she’d grown haggard before her years. She smiled; she had all of her teeth. She wouldn’t for long, if she kept smoking cigarillos.
“You looking for company, mister?”
Nick pitied her; he always pitied them. Not that a single one of these street girls wanted pity so much as they wanted cash. Enough cash to get away from the depravity and the squalor, the abusive customers, the drunks and brawlers. He would give her some, but if he pulled out a coin here, he’d be identified as a mark within seconds and pickpocketed before he could even reach for his purse. Besides, every evening she was probably searched by Mrs. Brown or one of her lackeys and stripped of any money found on her.
“You shouldn’t be asking me,” he said.
“You police?”
He tapped the brim of his hat. “Good day to you,” he responded and descended the steps leading into the basement saloon.
A stove warmed the space, and gas lamps lit the tin ceiling. The proprietor was cleaning tables while in the tiny kitchen beyond the main room his wife was frying wurst, preparing for the evening crowd that would turn up around seven and stay until it was kicked out at twelve. This was a nicer saloon than a lot of those in or near the Barbary, with a better clientele.
“Mina?” he asked the girl’s boss, a barrel-chested German with a handsome smile.
“She is in back, Detective Greaves,” he answered, returning to the walnut bar near the large front window. “Leave the door open.”
“You must want to hear the shouting, Bauman.”
The German laughed and started stacking clean glasses on shelves.
The saloon was not only nicer than a lot of them; it was bigger, too, with two rooms of living quarters for the Baumans and a spare room for the musicians to rest and prepare for the night’s entertainment. Nick nodded to Mrs. Bauman as he went down the hallway adjacent to the kitchen.
He paused in front of the closed door, an uneasy feeling in his chest. Removing his hat, he knocked and didn’t wait for her to tell him to come in.
“It’s not time yet, Herr Bauman.” She looked up. Her dark eyes met Nick’s in the mirror propped against the wall over the dressing table where she was seated. Her pink lips, lips he had once thought tasted as good as they looked, fell open. “Nick.”
Not Hello or What the hell are you doing here? Just his name. Which said a whole lot about the months that had elapsed since the last time they’d seen each other. It said even more about all the pain he’d caused when he’d told her it was best he walk out of this room and out of her life.
With a swish of striped purple-and-yellow silk, she spun about on the stool. She’d saved for months to buy the dress, which Nick hadn’t realized when he’d made the mistake of asking who the admirer was who had bought it for her. She had a mean slap when she got angry.
“Hullo, Mina.”
She was lovely even in the harsh flare of the gas lamps turned up high to help her apply the scant amount of makeup she wore. She had lustrous black hair and skin that was as smooth as silk on every inch he’d ever touched. Her temper could be quick to flare and quicker still to burn out, but she had been able to make him laugh. He’d needed to laugh when they had first fallen in together. After Meg had killed herself.
“I’m busy, Nick.” Her face had settled into hard lines. He hadn’t exactly expected her to jump into his arms. “I need to finish getting ready so I can have a bite to eat and get some practice in before the place opens. We have a new pianist tonight. Who knows what tempo he’s going to take for some of those songs. I’d rather not find out the hard way. Herr Bauman wouldn’t like that.”
“I won’t take long.”
“You’ve already taken too much of my time.”
He let that comment go. No point in bringing up old arguments. “What do you know about the anti-coolie groups? Any of them in here complaining, talking about causing trouble?”
“This is about the murder of that Chinese prostitute. That’s why you’re here.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Business first, like ever, eh, Nick? Your blasted work. Always so damned important. More important than anybody or anything else. You never change.”
So much for not wanting to bring up old arguments.
He turned his hat in his hands. When he drew in a breath, he inhaled the tuberose perfume she used and recollected a woman who smelled of soap and lavender. A woman who didn’t have reasons to despise him.
“I told you then that getting involved with me was a bad idea, Mina.”
“And you were right.”
“Back to my question.” He’d apologized once for breaking her heart; he wasn’t going to again. “This is serious, Mina. I need to know if you’ve heard anything. Might one of them be behind the girl’s killing?”
“Hell, Nick.” She let out a breath. “I don’t remember hearing anything about folks hankering to kill a prostitute, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t think any of the men who come in here and complain over their beers would go that far. It was probably one of her customers.”
Mina sounded indifferent, but he knew she sympathized with the girls on the streets, girls who had it a lot rougher than she did as a woman who didn’t have to sell her body in order to survive.
“Ever hear of a man named Wagner? A customs official who likes to beat up people?” He described the man.
“No, Nick. I don’t know the man. He’s never been in here.”
“So that’s it?” he asked. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
She licked her lips and contemplated him. He didn’t like that he could read concern in her eyes. After all they’d said to each other, she could still care. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything. But that’s all I can promise. Don’t ask me for more.”
“Thank you, Mina.” Nick placed his hat on his head, leveling the brim with a sweep of his fingertips. “And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t bother. I don’t believe you.”
He turned on his heel and strode out into the hallway.
“Be careful, Nick!” she called to his back, proving that his obsession with work wasn’t the only thing that never changed.
• • •
Celia had waited until she was certain Nicholas Greaves hadn’t followed her before retracing her steps to Mr. Lange’s shop. As she’d hoped, he had returned and was outside on the street, speaking with a man who had his back to Celia.
“Mr. Lange,” she called out.
The stranger turned toward her. He caught her eye, frowned, and rushed off. He must not appreciate being interrupted.
Mr. Lange let him go without comment. “Madame Davies. It is good to see you. The news about Miss Li . . .” He shook his head sadly and escorted her inside the shop.
Apparently, the stranger had distracted Mr. Lange while he had been preparing pills. A mahogany pill roller and a bowl of reddish paste bound together by plant gum and glycerine waited on the shop’s large table.
“I cannot believe it, either,” she said.
“A detective was here to talk to us. Do you think the police believe we are responsible?”
“Of course not. They’re merely being thorough.”
“Ah. Oui.” Hubert Lange stepped around the table. “Do you mind if I continue?” He gestured at the pill roller. “It is a most important order.”
“Not at all. Please do.”
He formed a thin tube out of the reddish paste. “You have come for your gum arabic, no?”
“I have. You were not here when I stopped by earlier.”
“Ah yes. I was called away to make a delivery.” She noticed his hands were shaking. It was not like him to be so agitated; he must be very upset by Li Sha’s death. “Was not Thérèse here?” he asked.
She was glad he asked the question; now she did not have to think up a reason to inquire about Tessie’s peculiar actions. “No, she was gone as well.”
“I must speak to her about leaving when I am away.” He flipped over the mahogany roller, revealing the twenty-four channels carved on the other side, laid the paste tube atop them, and began pressing out pills. “We cannot have the customers going to the other shops because we are not open.”
“I was on my way home when I spotted her heading for the Barbary.” A trifle disingenuous, Celia. “I thought it so unusual, I decided to follow her.”
He glanced up then and peered at her through his spectacles. “You follow my daughter?”
Celia flushed. However, in for a pence, in for a pound.
“I’m far too curious at times, I suppose,” she said, hoping she sounded as though she realized she’d been silly. She probably had been silly. “I know how much you worry about her, though. So I thought I should tell you that when Tessie was in the Barbary, I saw her talking to a rather unpleasant-looking man.”
“A man in the Barbary?” he asked, stroking the flat paddle forcefully across the grooves, the pills dropping into the shallow trough at the end. “Perhaps she did not go to speak to this man you saw, but he stopped her. You know how it is in this city. The men, they can be so . . . what is the word? Brazen?”
Tessie hadn’t seemed alarmed by the man’s advances, though. “So you don’t believe the man was an acquaintance of hers?”
No Comfort for the Lost Page 9