Innocent Bystander

by C. A. Asbrey

  They ran the gauntlet of abuse until the gate to the cell block clanged behind them and they were back in the clamor of the back office.

  “The chief says the Pinkertons have someone who can identify Quinn, so I’ll guess we’ll have to wait until he gets here.”

  “Well, it looks like I picked a bad time, Clay. I’ll come back another day when it’s calmer.” Jake proffered a handshake in farewell. “Take care of that prisoner. If he is Quinn, he’s worth a helluva lot of money.”

  “You can count on that.”

  “How did you get him, anyway?”

  “George Smith got some information. You met him, he brought your coffee.” Clay grinned. “He’s out sick today. Some kind of grippe, but with information like this, you can forgive a sick day. We need him as a detective with those skills.”

  “Really? Who did he get the information from? They’re in for a lot of money real soon. I hope he gets a cut of it.”

  “We ain’t allowed.” Clay’s eyes tainted with despondence. “George won’t get a penny. He’ll be rewarded by a promotion to inspector, though.”

  “So who gets it, then? Who’s the lucky fella?”

  “A rich dude by the name of Wilbur Beaumont. Lives on one of them new houses on Franklin Street. Life just ain’t fair. He’s loaded. Money always goes to money, doesn’t it?”

  “It seems to,” Jake answered. “So how did he know Quinn? It ain’t like criminals mix in the same circles as bankers unless they’re pointin’ a gun at them.”

  Clay shrugged. “Dunno. We just acted on the information, but the top brass jump to action when the rich speak up, huh?”

  “I guess they do.” Jake held open the door as a sparrow of a woman squeezed in under his arm. “See you next time, Clay.”

  Chapter 13

  The seconds throbbed away, marked by the thrum of the Abigail’s alarm clock on the mantel. The clock was encased in brass, topped by a gleaming dome-shaped bell. The white face caught the watery light of the moonbeams streaming in through the window. The deep shadows had crept out from the corners, expanding until they had swallowed the fading light entirely. The only illumination came from the windows in the silvery sheen which grayed the scene to a lustrous pearl, cutting through the gloom as it picked out the furniture by the window.

  Abigail sat in silence, armed with a Pietta revolver. Its 44 caliber and five-and-a-half-inch barrel was much larger than her usual single-shot Derringer, but things had taken a dangerous turn. Someone knew who they really were—or who, at least, one of them was. She had to assume the worst and consider the possibility of someone at the agency turning them in. The police had turned up not long after she had contacted Dr. MacIvor, and while she found it difficult to suspect him, anyone else could have seen the telegram by wandering into his office. A few at the agency knew she had formed a relationship of sorts with Nat Quinn. As Quinn and Conroy were the last known people to have spoken to her missing sister, it didn’t take much to figure out what might have come out of Abigail’s investigation.

  Had she been betrayed?

  She had pondered long and hard on the house numbers, wondering how they could be confused. Sixes and eights could be mistaken in a snatched upside down glance. Their apartment was at number eighty-six, while the Batholemew house was at number eighty-eight. Nat and Jake always covered their faces when robbing, so only a fellow criminal could have spotted them from their world, in which case, they’d have surely spotted him, too. But Tom Bartlett had also seen Nat in Everlasting, and could identify him. He was a Pinkerton, and he had been unhappy about her refusing his assistance. Something about the look in her colleague’s eye bothered her when she walked away.

  She’d been sitting for hours, wondering how long it would take them to realize they had the wrong man and go search another address. Whoever it was, if they were an enemy, was likely to break in rather than knock. She was prepared for them.

  The sound of footsteps in the communal hallway outside made her mind snap back to action, her full focus now directed at the door to the little apartment. She stood and positioned herself behind the door.

  The hairs prickled at the back of her neck at the metallic tinkle of something inserted into the lock. It rattled through the thick darkness as she held her breath. The door opened, the movement caught in the melding of black shadows with the sooty murk of the corner. A tall figure walked in, picked out by the moonbeams of an ebony silhouette as he strode into the room and looked around. Abigail glided soundlessly out of the gloom and raised her weapon. He visibly stiffened at the click of the gun cocking behind him.

  “Don’t move. That is a gun and it’s pointed right at your head. Get your hands up where I can see them. One false move, and I will shoot.”

  She watched the arms rise before a familiar voice drifted back to her.

  “Abi? What the hell is goin’ on?”

  “Jake? What are you doing creeping around in the dark?” She heaved a sigh of relief and reached over to close the door behind them. “You can get hurt doing stupid things like that.”

  “I ain’t creepin’. I just walked in the front door. Why are you sittin’ in the dark?” He turned to face her in the blackness. “I’ve just come from the police station at Mission. Tibby told me Nat’d been arrested. The news is all over town.”

  “It’s not him.” She shook her head. “For some reason, they took Bartholemew. We watched it happen. I’ve snuck Nat out in disguise. He’s got a room at the Occidental.”

  She could see him nod in the poor light. “I know. I went to break him out.”

  Abigail sucked in a breath at Jake’s sheer audacity. “Out? From a busy police station? How did you even get in?”

  “I got kinda in with the inspector lookin’ into Tibby’s mess. I convinced him I might be able to identify their prisoner on account of havin’ been on a train held up by The Innocents once.” She could see his outline shrug. “That ain’t no lie. Except for sayin’ it only happened once. Anyhow, it wasn’t Nat.”

  “And if it had been?”

  “Yeah, well. Best you don’t dwell on that, darlin’. What are you doin’ here?”

  “The arrest came right after I sent the telegram to Doctor MacIvor. I suspect someone at the agency used it to try to arrest Nat.”

  “Whoever it is ain’t here, or they wouldn’t still be holdin’ Bartholemew by mistake. They’re probably travelin’.” Jake strode over to the table and struck a match, the light flashing up his features with a golden glow. He touched the flame to the wick of the oil lamp and adjusted it until it brightened without too much blackening smoke before he replaced the shade back in the collar. “We’re gonna use that time. Get packed. We’re goin’ to the Occidental. Bartholemew and Maddie are safely apart for now.” His gaze fell on the weapon in her hand. “Since when did you start using a gun that size?”

  “Since I started working for the Pinkertons,” she answered, as she walked over and placed it beside the lamp. “I carry a Derringer for the purposes of concealment, not lack of ability.”

  He nodded, a wry smile flickering over his face. “Good. Keep it close. I’ll go get us a cab. We’ve gotta get outta here while we still can. Now, pack—and do it fast.” He rapped his knuckles on the table in a pattern redolent of some of the note values of an Irish jig. “That’s how I’ll knock. If anyone else comes to the door, don’t open it. Leave the drapes open. If they’re closed, I’ll know someone came to the door and I’ll be watchin’ for folks hangin’ around.” He glanced at the weapon and darted a shrewd glance around the room. “Or maybe even for what you do to them if they get in.”

  “But we need to use this place. How else can I see who’s coming and going at the Bartholemew place?”

  “Let’s find out what we’re dealin’ with first. We ain’t abandonin’ it, but it’s smart to retreat when you think you’re surrounded. Pack.” He paused at the door, grasping the handle. “And don’t forget them library books you checked out on poisons and radio wa
ves. They can track folks through those. I won’t be long. Get workin’.”

  ♦◊♦

  The hard knuckles tapped out the same pattern Jake had rattled on the table and the interconnecting door to room 279 of the Occidental Hotel opened to reveal the dimpled smile of Nat Quinn.

  “You got the room next door?” Nat grinned at Jake and Abigail in turn. “How’d you manage that?”

  “I saw the key to 277 was still on the board and told the clerk seven was my lucky number.” Abigail strolled into Nat’s room. “They believe nonsense like that from women. Nobody knocked or tried to contact you?”

  “Nope,” answered Nat, “but me wearing that wig and beard would make that a stretch for anyone.”

  Abigail sat on the bed. “Mr. Quinn, have you seen anyone at all who looked even vaguely familiar?”

  Nat’s brown eyes drifted upward as he pondered hard. “Nope. Nobody.” A frown flickered over his face. “It has to be a criminal. Someone from our past. We don’t mix in criminal circles outside of the gang. That’s how most people get caught. We hit a few targets, lay low at Ghost Canyon, and split up until we need more cash. Anyone meeting us outside a robbery wouldn’t know who we are.”

  “Well, somebody does.” Jake leaned against the dresser. “His name’s Wilbur Beaumont, and he lives on Franklin Street. He’s rich. Where’d you meet a man like that?”

  Abigail gasped. “How do you know all that?”

  “I asked the detective. Honeybun likes me.” Jake shrugged. “He even thinks I want to join up.”

  Abigail rubbed her temples as she processed this information. “You’d have been great at it but he just told you that? That’s appalling. Very indiscreet.”

  “Yup, straight out.” One wry eyebrow rose, and Jake winked at Abigail. “But I guess he’d have an opinion of you sittin’ here with us.”

  Her rueful chuckle underscored the concern in her eyes. “Yes, and it looks like I’ll be hearing it firsthand very soon unless you two leave right away.”

  “Nope.” Nat shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re here alone with a man who kills women. I’m staying. Jake’s free to go whenever he wants. You’ve a damned chest full of disguises and equipment. We’ll use that, all of us.” He glinted a warning at Abigail. “You, too.”

  “Me?”

  “If they’re tracking us through you, you can’t go around looking like yourself.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “I might try out my blonde for a change. It’s been a while since I was blonde.”

  “So how do we go about finding this Wilbur Beaumont?” asked Jake. “All we got is a street name and San Francisco is a big place. There’s gonna be hundreds of houses on that street and we don’t know what he looks like.”

  Abigail’s brow creased. “He’s rich, you say?”

  “Son of a banker, Honeybun said,” Jake answered.

  “So he’ll mix in certain circles?” she chewed her lip as she considered the question. “I think I know someone who may be able to help.”

  ♦◊♦

  “I’d like to see Miss Atchinson, please.” Abigail smiled at the servant who peered down his hooked nose at her. “It’s Miss MacKay. We’ve met before.”

  The man gave a curt nod of recognition and stepped aside. “Please wait in the hall, madam. I’ll see if she is at home for callers.”

  Hortense Atchinson bustled down the curved staircase, her pale face mottled with blotches of pink anxiety. A pale hand reached out and rested on Abigail’s arm.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Abigail glanced around, ensuring no servants were lurking to eavesdrop on their conversation. When she responded it was with a hushed urgency. “Robert Bartholemew has been arrested.”

  The woman’s pale blue eyes widened. “No! Do they have my name? What if my father—”

  “No.” Abigail cut her off. “They know nothing about you, but a local man told the police he was Nat Quinn. That famous outlaw. Do you think that could be true?”

  “Nat Quinn? Surely not.”

  “Who knows?” Abigail lied. “Maybe this is what he does between holdups? He’s not honest. That’s for sure.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “The man who turned him in is called Wilbur Beaumont. Do you know him? I was hoping he might have information to help me find my sister.” Abigail’s eyes glistened with worry. “She’s still missing. Please. Can you help me find him in any way?”

  “Wilbur Beaumont?” Miss Atchinson’s brow creased as she searched her memory. “Yes. I know him. He’s a dreadful fellow, part of a dissolute set. I don’t have much to do with them. They’re terribly louche.”

  “But you know him?” Abigail pressed. “You could point him out to me? Please, I must ask him if he knows anything about my sister.”

  “Well, he always goes to the races on Sundays. My brother goes along, too. He’ll probably be at Ocean Park this afternoon. They don’t tend to arrive until about two.” She sniffed in disapproval. “They are late to rise as they are out on Saturday night. All night. I hear my brother coming home sometimes. What a disgraceful show he must make of himself.”

  Abigail nodded. “Will you come with me? Just to point Beaumont out. I’ll do the rest. You needn’t speak to him at all.” She watched the woman dither, so pressed on. “Please. I really need your help.”

  A door opened, and a male voice boomed in the high ceiling of the hallway. “Hortense? Who is this?”

  Abigail turned to face a man in an extravagant smoking jacket, his dark green cravat only just visible under the bushy gray beard.

  “Father, this is Miss MacKay. She and I—” Miss Atchinson drifted off, unable to explain to her parent how she had made the acquaintance of someone outside of his social circle.

  “Miss Abigail MacKay.” She smiled her most beguiling smile and proffered a hand. “Your daughter and I met while shopping. She was kind enough to assist me with her opinion of a hat I was buying. Brothers just can’t be depended upon for things like that. Can they, Mr. Atchinson?”

  “Irish?” He scowled, his bushy brows gathered at her accent. “Who are your people?”

  “Scottish, Mr. Atchinson.” She corrected with great precision as she shook her head. The very term ‘people’ reeked with a man groping around for a reason to disapprove. It was nothing Abigail hadn’t met before. The Scots met with an approval the Irish didn’t. “We own distilleries and breweries.” She beamed at the concerned father hoping that he wasn’t aware she was counting numerous relatives who bubbled up their own brews in the back yard to inflate the international vision of her family enterprise. There was only one professional operation in the USA. “My father brought MacKay’s Kensaleyre to the USA. It’s very successful. I’m here with my brothers who are looking for somewhere to expand west. I’m not involved in the business side, of course.” She clutched at Hortense’s hand “It’s very tedious watching men talk and I hoped my new friend could give me a female tour of the fun to be had here. We met trying on hats. I’m trying to get her to come to the horse racing at the Ocean Course this afternoon.” She pouted. “My brothers just want to go to the paddock and the bookmakers. I’d like to take some tea and do some female things for a change.”

  “The races?” The simmering Atchinson patriarch appeared to go off the boil. “Well, I suppose it’s a step up from those poetry sops you’ve been hanging about with, Hortense. Will there be any men there?”

  “No, well, my brothers will escort us to the Tea Pavilion, but then I’d be on my own unless I can persuade a lady friend. Please say yes, Mr. Atchinson. Otherwise, I’ll have to wait at the hotel on my own.”

  She watched the suspicious father simmer and thrust in another layer of safekeeping. “You could come with us, or maybe another member of the family? Hortense said her brother enjoyed the races. He could come with us.”

  The man’s face relaxed. “Yes, that’s the thing. Where is Frankie? He can take you.
He usually goes there anyway.”

  “He’s still in bed, father.”

  Mr. Atchinson’s face sank back to his default anger. “Then get him up. It’s after ten.” He turned and bellowed at the empty hall. “Wilson! Get that good-for-nothing-slugabed of a son of mine up already. Tell him he’s taking his sister to the races with him.” He turned back to Abigail. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss MacKay. Maybe you’ll get this one’s nose out of a book and into the fresh air for a change?” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “It’s bad for a woman’s brain to read too much. They’re not made for it.”

  He turned and strode down the hallway toward a paneled door while Abigail’s eyes glittered with zest. “I’ll pick you up around one-thirty.” She glanced around for anyone who might hear once more. “Oh, and don’t be surprised if I’m blonde. Needs must, Hortense. Can I call you that, or do you prefer Miss Atchinson?”

  “Blonde?” she stammered.

  “A wig. A harmless conceit. I don’t know who this Beaumont knows. I don’t want him to know who I am. Don’t worry, it’ll look perfectly natural.”

  ♦◊♦

  Frankie Atchinson’s jaws stretched into a molar-revealing yawn, causing his ornate mustache to bristle and make last night’s stale styling wax to flake onto his lapels. “I don’t see why I’ve got to bring you, Tennie.” He glowered at Hortense. “You hate the races.”

  Hortense pursed her lips. “Father said. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You don’t want to come with us?” Abigail’s eyes burned beneath a wig of buttery blonde hair. “We can drop you anywhere you’d like.” She glanced at the bearded ‘brothers’ wedging her in on either side. “I would hate to think of us forcing our company on you.”

  Frankie leaned forward with a hungry grin and patted her knee. “On the contrary, madam. You’re the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have. Why hasn’t Tennie ever introduced you to me without the henchmen?”

  Jake’s brows rose beneath a light brown wig and gripped Frankie’s wandering hand. “Yeah? Don’t get your hopes up, or you’ll be out that door faster’n green grass through a goose.” Jake sat back, the flinching muscles in his jaw making his Van Dyke beard twitch. “Without the coach even stoppin’.”