“And what happens if a woman ends up dead?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Who cares for the likes of us?”
“Where is Billy Blackburn?”
“Don’t know. He bought everyone drinks and took off. You got his job.”
“When did he leave?”
“The night before that fellow was found dead.”
Earl Becker sat sullenly at a table nursing a drink. The tide of rowdy sailors had ebbed, and the hotel was relatively quiet in the wee hours of morning. Riot signaled the bartender, then took a whiskey bottle and shot glass to Earl’s table.
The scruffy, disheveled man started to protest, until he laid eyes on the full bottle.
“Hard night?”
Earl grunted. “Run while you can.”
“How long have you lasted?”
“Been here since it opened.”
Riot used his teeth to pull out the cork, and filled the man’s tumbler with whiskey, then his own. Both men knocked back an appreciative draught.
“Can’t run. I need the work,” Riot said with a sigh.
“Don’t we all.”
Riot hesitated, before leaning in close. “Say, Earl, I’m new to this… in my other line of work if we happened on a man for breakfast, we just kept riding. But what do we do if we find a body here?”
“Find a place to dump him.”
“Won’t we be blamed for the murder, then?”
“You’ll be blamed if you’re the one that finds him. Trust me. It’s best to dump him, or just walk on by.”
“Like you did with that dead fellow?”
Earl turned red in the face. “I did no such thing,” he hissed. “You keep your mouth shut.”
“Like I said, that’s how we did it where I come from,” Riot said quickly. “No shame in it. You know how lawmen are—they’ll arrest any man near a body.”
Earl relaxed. “Yeah. Just keep walking. That’s what I do.”
“It was the woman who killed him, wasn’t it?”
“They say it was suicide.”
Riot snorted. “Suicide, my ass.” He poured Earl another drink.
Earl leaned so close that Riot was hit with a wall of whiskey-infused breath. “I don’t know nothin’. That’s what I told the police, and it’s God’s honest truth. All I know is that the oriental woman vanished, and there was a dead man in there. Billy, the other guard on my floor, took off that same night.”
“So you did find the dead fellow?” Riot asked.
Earl glanced at the bottle and licked his lips. “I did. He was already stiff as a board, but I didn’t want him to stink up the place. There was a pencil on the mattress. Odd thing. I tossed it on the floor, then just rolled him on his back so someone would find him. You know? Figured someone would start screaming when they saw him, all contorted like he was. Then I could claim I didn’t know nothin’ till sum other fella found him.”
“Seems a wise thing to do. Christian of you, making sure he was found.”
Riot refilled the tumbler.
“Amen to that.” Earl clinked glass with Riot. “And… well, I figured it’d give that woman some time to put distance between here and there. She likely had a good reason for killing him.”
“I heard she was nursing, though. What about her baby?”
Earl shrugged. “Don’t know nothin’ about a baby. Some women keep the milk going, you know. Fellows with an itch pay extra for that, and the girls can make some money on the side selling milk.”
Riot hoped that was true—that no infant was involved in this dark affair, but as the son of a crib whore, he knew that was likely too much to hope for.
“Where is your friend Billy Blackburn?”
“What?”
“Where’d he take off to?”
“How the hell do I know? He ain’t no friend of mine. And why do you care?”
“One of the doves says he owes her money,” he lied smoothly. “I figure if I can track him down, there might be something in it for me. And maybe you, too.”
Earl snorted. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Billy owed lots of money. He’s a drunk.”
“Does he have a favorite saloon?”
“It’s a blind pig, The Laughing Mule off Front Street. He’s into cock fighting.”
41
The Guest
“Now you take that out and place it on the sideboard. Don’t spill a thing. Then wait in the corner in case someone needs you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The cook sighed. “Seems like I’m training a new maid every month.”
Isobel carried the platter out as dignified as Rachel Wall could manage. She battled with the swinging door and backed out so as not to disturb the delicacies. Then kept her head down all the way to the sideboard.
“…Egypt, India, Australia, New Guinea,” a voice droned in an accent that spoke of too much education and a high opinion of himself. “I’ve traveled the world, but there’s no place like San Francisco.” Frederick Starling was the picture of a gentleman. His chin had the look of elite blood and his collar was as crisp as his blond hair. He had a little mustache on his upper lip and a high brow.
“I don’t believe it, Freddie,” Imogen said. “I just don’t. It’s cold and damp here, and the people are just plain barbaric.” Imogen Noble, the oldest daughter, was a slight thing, with sandy hair, a round face, and full lips. She played the doe-eyed beauty, but Isobel suspected she was more intelligent than she let on. She was, after all, friends with Violet.
“But there’s so much charm here,” Freddie insisted. “A wildness you won’t find anywhere else.”
“You can find it in Alaska. Godforsaken place. Cold as…”
“I’m sure it’s cold, Finny,” Mrs. Noble cut off her husband’s curse. Mr. Ian Noble was not refined. His whiskers refused to be smoothed, and he vibrated like a kettle about to explode. He looked uncomfortable in his formal bow tie and dinner jacket, and seemed more suited to having a rifle in his hands and something in its sights to kill. He was missing the tips of his ears. Frostbite. Along with two fingers—on his writing hand, no less. She’d seen him using a thick pen to write with.
Isobel had no idea why his wife called him Finny.
“Now there’s a place I haven’t traveled,” Freddie said. “I’ve heard the grizzly bears are particularly fierce. I should like to hunt one, to compare with the lions of Africa.”
“You’ve been to Africa, too?” a familiar voice asked.
Isobel nearly dropped the silverware she was arranging. It was Sarah’s voice. She quickly set down the utensils, and moved to a corner. Sarah sat between Helen and Faith, and was leaning forward with eagerness on her face.
Pride welled up in Isobel’s breast. Her daughter had infiltrated the family with ease. But worry quickly replaced pride, and Isobel’s heart gave a flutter. There was no telling what Isobel would uncover in this house—Sarah could very well be dining with a murderer.
What on earth was she doing there? Isobel had only wanted her to talk with Helen, not get herself invited to dinner.
“I’ve been all over, my dear,” Freddie said with a flick of his napkin before arranging it on his lap.
“Freddy is in shipping,” Imogen explained.
“My family business.”
Mr. Noble grunted. “Good to find a hardworking man who’s not afraid to roll up his sleeves.”
“Talking business at the table is crude, dear,” Mrs. Noble reminded. The woman’s golden hair was tinged with grey, and she wore a mourning shroud of black, folded back to reveal a pale face. Her black satin dress shone under the lights.
Freddie began regaling the girls with an account of a tiger hunt in the jungles of China. Imogen listened with rapt attention, her eyes lingering on his face with what was obviously affection. Faith sourly moved food around her plate, while Helen and Sarah hung on his every word.
While Imogen was asking about a detail of the hunt, Faith poked Sarah to get her attention. Helen perked up. Then
Faith raised a glass, signaling for a refill. Since no one else was in the room, Isobel hurried over to refill her lemonade. But as she was pouring, Faith jerked the tablecloth.
Yellow liquid spilled over the pristine tablecloth. Isobel wanted to kick the girl in the shin, but Rachel Wall gave a suitable squeak and started patting at the tablecloth.
“You dim-witted, girl,” Faith said, shooting to her feet. “You’ve gotten it all over my dress.”
Helen stifled a giggle, and Mrs. Noble rose from her chair, calling for help.
Sarah quickly grabbed a napkin to help clean Faith’s dress. “It’s really all right. It’s nothing that won’t come—” Sarah cut off when she saw the maid’s face. Her eyes flew wide.
Isobel winked at her daughter, and continued her clumsy cleaning as Sarah spluttered. She hadn’t told Sarah where she and Riot were headed. Only that they’d be on a case for the next few weeks.
Faith seethed. “I’ll need to change now. You’re so clumsy, girl.”
“Get out of this dining room,” Mr. Noble barked.
Isobel jumped at the order, then ducked her head and bolted for the door. As the door swung shut, she heard Frederick Starling say, “One thing you can’t find here are satisfactory servants.”
42
A Lively Theater
A brothel was a theater, each room a carefully constructed stage where the audience came to participate. And sometimes, watch. Riot was interested in what was behind the curtain. That was the view he’d seen as a child. All the tears and bruises, the pain and self-loathing. The drink. And along with it, a near to unbreakable bond between women. But that bond was missing in this brothel. The women were at each other’s throats.
After breaking up another catfight, Riot stepped through a door into the back hallways, and nodded to the passing women. A few even smiled back. With the night done, most were headed to whatever homes they had, while others were coming in for a shift. With haggard faces and shadowed eyes, they smoked and chatted in the back hallways.
Riot made his way to the manager’s office. As he’d suspected, the manager wasn’t Mrs. Honeyford. She was only a front—an older woman who was paid to take the blame for the actual manager during a raid. Mrs. Honeyford was likely still in jail.
A middle-aged man with whiskers and a lazy eye sat in her place. He was all business as he tallied up weekly wages. “I admit, I wasn’t sure about you considering your size, but I’m told you do good work, Mr. Kyd. Had no complaints from the girls. They usually nitpick every watchman to death. Lazy, complaining bitches. Will you be staying on another week?”
“If it suits you, sir.”
Mr. Kane counted out Riot’s earnings for the week. In coins. “Here you go.”
Riot frowned. “That’s not even half of what was promised.”
“Well, you ate at the hotel, didn’t you?”
“I was told it was on the house.”
Mr. Kane gave a rumbling laugh. “Ain’t nothing free here. The rest I took out for that wall you ruined.”
“The wall?”
“You smashed a fellow’s head clean through. Someone’s got to fix that.”
Riot stared long and hard at the fellow, who stared right back. A large watchman stood behind Mr. Kane. He didn’t talk to any of the other watchmen, and the women only called him Claude. Claude crossed thick arms, and stared too.
“You got a problem, Mr. Kyd?” Kane asked.
“No, sir.” Riot snatched up his coins, then opened the back door to leave. But a man and a woman stood in the way. The man wore a bright silk vest and a striped suit. Smooth-faced with a slick black mustache, he gripped a gold-capped walking stick. The knob was obscene—a woman bent double with all the anatomically correct bits.
Riot stepped back, and after a look from Mr. Kane, remained in the office.
The pimp pushed his whore through the door.
“Get off of me, you slime. I’m not working here,” the woman was saying.
“You’ll work where I tell you to work,” the pimp ordered. He slapped a fiver onto Kane’s desk. “She’s getting high and mighty. I’m sick and tired of dealing with her whining.”
“How long you want me to keep her?” Mr. Kane asked, holding out his palm. Another five was placed in his hand.
“I’ll come get her in a week.”
“I won’t work here,” the woman said. She was in her early twenties, her eyes were sunken and darting, and she fidgeted obsessively with her sleeve.
“If I have to spend one more day with you, I’ll wring your neck till you shut your mouth. Got it?”
She spat at him. And he slapped her.
“You’ll do as you’re told. And don’t think you can slack off work. I want double your upkeep. Understood?”
The woman was rubbing her hot cheek.
Riot took a slow breath, forcing his jaw to relax.
“Come on now,” Mr. Kane crooned. “It’s not so bad here. You’ll have your own room.” He consulted his logbook. “Number twenty. Now that’s a good one.”
The pimp reached under his coat and brought out a flask. The little shake he gave drew the woman’s eyes. “One a day. It’s double the usual dose. You know I care about you, sweet.”
The woman snatched the flask to take a drink. She instantly relaxed. The pimp passed her a small packet. “And a bit extra to keep you working.”
The pimp left, and Riot stood by as Kane explained the hotel rules and layout. With a glassy-eyed stare, the woman stripped and went to the next room to place her clothing and belongings in a locker.
Mr. Kane leaned back in his chair to watch. “You won’t earn your keep looking like that, lovely. Give us a little wiggle to get things going!”
The woman started to give him a finger, then thought better of it. Instead, she gave a wiggle before leaving with her drugs.
“I didn’t know pimps dropped their cows here,” Riot said.
“Odd Stick there brings his gals in when he’s looking to charm another. They get jealous of his affections otherwise. I reckon that one was his latest toy. She probably still thinks he loves her. A week here will knock that idea loose.”
“Are we supposed to make sure they don’t run?” Riot asked. He knew the answer, but he was playing dumb.
Mr. Kane looked up. “Where they gonna run?” He jerked his head towards the lockers. “They don’t got no clothes.” And to demonstrate, Mr. Kane hauled himself out of his chair to lock the locker. He tucked the master key in his pocket, giving it a fond little pat.
“What happens if a girl doesn’t come up with rent?”
“Same as you. If you eat more than your share or drink your earnings… I own you.”
Riot glanced at Claude, who rolled his massive shoulders. Riot was really starting to loathe this place.
43
Virtuous Lies
“This is where you’ve been?” Sarah whispered.
Isobel glanced to the side. They were standing in a wide corridor outside Faith’s room. The girl had had Isobel pour her yet another bath, and now Isobel had the lemonade-stained dress over an arm.
“I told you I was on a case.”
“Yes, but—” Sarah faltered, taking in Isobel’s uniform: little white hat, white lace collar and black dress. She stifled a giggle.
“I’m on the verge of murdering all three sisters,” Isobel admitted.
“Helen is sad. Faith was only trying to cheer her up,” Sarah said. “They’re spoiled and don’t think highly of anyone below their class.”
“I’ve noticed,” Isobel said dryly. “How are they treating you?”
“Because I’m below their class?” Sarah asked, insulted.
“I didn’t mean—” She caught a mischievous glint in Sarah’s eyes. “We’re rubbing off on you.”
Sarah couldn’t contain herself any longer; she pulled Isobel into a fierce hug.
Isobel patted the girl’s back. “I haven’t been gone that long. And don’t ruin my cover. I’d hate to
come back as a cook.”
Sarah took a step back in case anyone wandered down the hallway. “Yes, but I’m glad to see you all the same. Is Atticus here, too?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“On another assignment. You never answered me about the three devils.”
“We get along perfectly. Well, aside from their game of chasing away maids.”
“Why do they do it?”
“Mr. Noble is a bully. He doesn’t strike them, but he hollers something fierce. So they take their frustration out on the staff. And their mother is a bible thumper.”
“A what?”
“She’s one of those religious types who threatens anyone she doesn’t like with hell and damnation.”
“Sounds like my mother,” Isobel muttered.
“No… It’s not that. It’s…” Sarah searched for the words. “If your mother came across a hungry woman on the street with a child and tattered clothes, she’d get her fed and cleaned up, and see she found a proper job. Even if she was a… whore. Mrs. Noble would likely use the good book as a bludgeon, and then walk right on by.”
Isobel started to argue, but it was true. For all her mother’s strict morals, she wouldn’t deny someone in need.
“But I heard Mrs. Noble hires women from charities.”
“It’s selective.”
“So she’s no Good Samaritan,” Isobel said.
Sarah put a hand to her throat in mock surprise. “Next you’ll be quoting verse.”
“Sarah, as fond as I am of sarcasm, save it for later. I need a succinct report. We don’t have much time.”
Sarah looked cornered. Panic flickered across the girl’s eyes as she searched for something useful. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Helen is nice enough. I truly like her. She and Faith miss their brother something fierce. Imogen does too, but she’s also infatuated with Mr. Starling.”
“What’s your opinion of him?”
“He’s pleasant enough. He sketches, and always has an interesting story.”
Beyond the Pale Page 26