Gold Fever (27 page)

Not incidentally, perhaps I could run Joey LeBlanc out of business and out of town.

Graham left the Savoy so fast, he almost ran over Angus in his attempt to get out the door.

My son's face was set in lines of firm determination that I was sorry to see. Miss Witherspoon trailed after him, looking equally stern. I considered hiding under the stairs but also considered what they might do if they couldn't locate me. I stepped into the light and pasted on my motherly smile.

“Mother, I'm glad you're here.” “Where else would I be? Angus, what are you up to now?” “How'd you know…? Never mind, you have to help us.

Mary's in jail.”

“I know that.” “Inspector McKnight let us see her for a few minutes.

She needs clean clothes and women's things.”

I dragged my son into the shadows of the stairs. Martha Witherspoon followed. All around us, men's ears were pricking up again. “Me?” I tried to whisper. “How did I get involved in this?”

“Her things are still upstairs, aren't they, Mother?”

“Yes. You can get them tomorrow. It's past time you were
home.”

“It isn't even eight o'clock!”

As if to emphasize his point, at that moment the orchestra
staggered out onto the street to begin their nightly call for
custom. They tuned up, the violin sounding rather like a cat in
labour, or perhaps the bagpipes. Half of the customers—those
with some musical education—winced.

“Angus, I have a business to run here. I will not be rushing about gathering up a woman's property because she was silly enough to get herself tossed in jail.”

“Mother!” Angus drew himself up to his full twelve-year old height. I stood very straight, trying to be unobtrusive about it.

“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Martha Witherspoon said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Constable Sterling told us they don't even have a female attendant to look after the women in the jail. He'd suggested it once, but Inspector McKnight said he would never countenance allowing respectable women into the company of women of ill-virtue. Think of the poor woman confined in those rough men's quarters with no one but men to bring her meals and watch over her…and…and…it doesn't bear thinking about.”

“I will think about it, Miss Witherspoon,” I said, “tomorrow. Angus, go home.” I looked at my son and saw the disappointment in his eyes and the droop of his shoulders. “I don't imagine they'll even let you in at this time of night.”

“Yes, they will. The guard said we could come back anytime before his shift ends at midnight.”

“Oh, all right! Come upstairs, and I'll get you some money so you can go shopping for a bit of soap and some clean linen to take to the jail. And a towel, I'm sure Mary would enjoy a clean towel.”

Angus smiled again. “That would be nice, Mother. She might like some food—a loaf of bread, some cheese.”

“You can purchase those things as well. Helen has put Mary's possessions into the storage closet. Ask her to get them. I'm sure she'd like her Bible.”

Angus kissed me on the cheek. The men surrounding us smiled. So far from home, they loved to be reminded of the sort of quaint family relationships they'd given up to come prospecting in the Klondike.

I told Angus to ask Helen to make me a fresh cup of tea and bring it upstairs while I went to my office to get the money.

“You're very kind,” Martha said.

Kindness had nothing to do with it. I hated to see that look of disappointment in my son's lovely blue eyes.

At last I got my tea, and Angus got the pathetically small bundle that made up Mary's worldly possessions. My beaming son and a rather pleased-with-herself Martha Witherspoon left the Savoy.

I'd been concerned about Angus trotting around town at Martha's heels; now it was looking more as if she were the one doing the trotting. As long as it kept him out of trouble.

The rest of the night was no more eventful than normal, although Richard Sterling didn't pop in regularly, as he usually did, to check that we weren't serving drinks to underage children, watering down the whisky, or cheating at cards. A couple of times I found myself turning with a smile when I caught sight of the familiar red tunic out of the corner of my eye. But it was always another Mountie.

It was getting close to closing time. I was not quite leaning against the back wall—Miss Wheatley would smack my palms if she ever caught me leaning—watching a man who had caught my attention. He was older than most of the men in town and was particularly well dressed in a black suit, stifflyironed white shirt (real white, not the sort of washed-out grey that almost everywhere in Dawson, on women as well as men, passed for white) and a black hat. The diamonds on his cufflinks glowed in the poor light cast by the kerosene lamps. He'd played a few rounds of poker, not high stakes, won a bit of money, then politely excused himself and gone to the bar to finish the evening with a drink. He said the occasional word to the men on either side of him but didn't appear to be interested in engaging anyone in conversation.

I wondered who he was and what he was doing here, both in the North and in my bar. And so I was observing him when a cheechako slid up beside him and engaged him in conversation. The cheechako, a young man dressed no worse than most, had consumed a fair amount of drink and was having trouble standing straight. The older fellow kept turning his head away, but the drunk kept on talking. The drunk shouted for another drink and poured a few coins out of a tattered money pouch for payment. I was considering asking Ray to escort the young man from the premises, as he was bothering the older one, who looked like a customer worth cultivating, when, to my considerable surprise, the older man relieved the younger one of the money bag. It was so smoothly done, I would have missed it if my eyes hadn't been following the young man's hand as he was about to put the pouch back in his breast pocket. I looked around for Constable Sterling…for any Mountie. Not a red jacket in sight. Ray was settling a dispute in the gambling room. A percentage girl sauntered up, wiggled her hips at the two men and invited the older one for a dance. He refused with a polite smile, but the young one accepted. I held my breath, knowing she was about to ask for a dollar. Instead of reaching into his jacket for the cash, he pulled a bill out of his pants pocket, and they went into the back.

The last thing we needed was for word to spread that someone had been robbed inside the Savoy. The earth had gone around the sun more than a few times since I'd worked the streets: if I got caught, I'd be in serious trouble. The well-dressed man drained his drink and shook his head when Murray offered to pour another. I crossed the room and slid into the space vacated by the drunk. “I hope you've had a pleasant evening, Mr…?”

He smiled at me, and his eyes fell to the neck of my gown. “Smith,” he said.

“Mr. Smith. I don't believe you've been in the Savoy before. Are you new to town?”

“Arrived day before yesterday, ma'am.”

“How lovely,” I let the fingers of my left hand flutter across his chest. I danced them around the edges of his lapels and licked my lips. I looked at the cufflinks and allowed my eyes to widen in appreciation, then raised them to look into his face.

“It's getting late,” he said, his voice husky. “Why don't you and me go out for some fresh air?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, taking back my hand and stepping away. “I've another engagement.”

His face clouded over as I backed off. I rushed into the dance hall. The caller was announcing that it was almost time for closing.

I hugged the walls so that I would come up behind the young man. “Sir, sir,” I said, tapping his shoulder. He turned, and I held up his money pouch. Heavy it was too—if he'd been sober, he might have missed it. “You dropped this.”

He took it from me. The percentage girl looked at me suspiciously. “Can't be too careful,” I said.

“Why, thank you, ma'am,” he said, trying not to slur his words. His face was unlined and his smile full of charm. An innocent corn-fed country boy. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Thank you, no,” I said. “You have another dance. This one is on the house. Keep an eye on that bag. Goodness knows how it happened to fall on the floor.”

Tomorrow I'd find Richard Sterling and tell him to be on the lookout for the well-dressed older gentleman with the diamonds in his cufflinks. I'd enjoy knowing he was spending a month or two in the wood pile.

I called Ray over. I described the pickpocket and told him to keep an eye out and make sure the fellow didn't step through our doors again.

My partner peered at me through narrowed eyes. “You saw this fellow pick a man's pocket and let him get away with it?”

I blew on my fingers. “I said I let him get away. I couldn't arrest him myself, now could I? I'll tell the Mounties about him. But I didn't say he got away with ‘it', did I?” I couldn't help but grin. I wiggled my fingers; it's true there are some things you never forget.

Ray didn't look as pleased as I felt. “Fee, if you got caught with your hand in a man's pocket…”

“Ray,” I said with a wicked smile, “I never get caught.”

I walked away from my shocked partner with a swish of satin.

In the gambling room, the roulette wheel slowed to a stop. Jake scooped up a pile of blue chip, and told the room he was closing up.

Most of the girls would be gone, but as always I wanted to check on the dressing room before going upstairs. The rotten floorboard in the middle of the room moved under my weight, and I reminded myself that I'd better get it fixed before someone fell through to the foundations.

“Well, that's what Chloe told me.” A woman's voice came from the other side of the open door leading into the dance hall.

“Ooohh,” one of the percentage girls breathed in shocked delight, “before she were killed, you mean?”

I stopped to listen. Miss Wheatley would beat me if she caught me eavesdropping. Unlike leaning, eavesdropping was a habit I refused to give up.

“Did you believe her?” a third girl asked.

“Sure I did,” the first one said. It was Betsy, one of the back-row stage performers. She sounded delighted at being the centre of attention for once. “She was right pleased with herself. Said she didn't need to put up with the likes of Mrs. MacPruneFace any longer now she had a man to take care of her. He'd offered to move her into his lodgings and all, soon as he moved out of his hotel and found a room. So it would be like a permanent relationship.”

So that was what they called me: Mrs. MacPruneFace. I'd give Betsy some prunes to stew on soon enough.

“And one more thing…”

I could almost hear the assembled listeners leaning forward. I leaned forward myself. “She pretty much told me she had the goods on our fancy
Lady Irenee
.”

“Oh, right. Like Irene has anything to be hiding. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.”

“Never mind, Irene. Did Chloe say who he was? Now that she's done for, he'll be looking for another woman.” She sounded hopeful.

“She said all right, but you can be sure I won't be telling the likes of you, Maxie McCoy,” Betsy said.

“Why not? What do you want with him? You've got Mr. Walker,” Maxie said.

“Shut up,” Betsy said. “She hears about it, and I'll be out on my ear.” I could assume I knew who “she” was. “I'm gettin' tired of Mr. Walker anyhow. He ain't givin' me nothing the rest of you girls don't get.”

“We ain't getting none o' that from Mr. Walker,” Maxie said with a squeal.

“You can have him, Betsy. Everyone knows Irene's so proper, she won't even step out with Mr. Walker. Chloe was lying. She didn't know anything about Irene that's worth telling.”

“Good morning, ladies.” I stepped through the door. “Looks like it's going to be a nice day. You'd best be getting home now. Some of you may have jobs to come to later.”

They scattered liked a flock of painted, colourful crows when a gust of wind stirred up the scarecrow.

I grabbed Betsy by the arm. “You,” I said, “can wait a moment.”

“I was only gossiping, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she blathered. “To impress the girls. I don't know nothing, and me and Mr. Walker, we ain't…”

“Who was Chloe's man friend?” I said. My fingers dug into the dancer's flabby arm.

“What?” Tears welled in her eyes, less, I thought, at the strength of my grip than the fear of losing her job.

“Chloe's man. Tell me his name, and I'll forget all the rest of that conversation.”

“Tom Jannis. The one that was killed.” “Didn't it occur to you that you should tell the Mounties that nugget of information?”

“The Mounties? I don't go nowhere near the police, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

I let go of her arm. She had a point. The women who worked for me were only one step higher on the social scale than the women in Paradise Alley. The Mounties I knew, even Inspector McKnight, wouldn't hold her social status against her when weighting her information, but I could imagine Betsy's experiences told her otherwise. When I was young and running through the streets of Seven Dials, one of the worst of the London slums, I wouldn't have told the Bobbies if I'd overheard someone plotting to kill the Queen.

“Ready to go, Betsy,” Ray came through the door. He stopped short at the sight of me. “I mean, it's time to lock up.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” I said. “Ray, go away.”

He went.

I turned to Betsy. She had assumed a most unattractive pout and rubbed at her arm as if to emphasize how much I'd hurt her. “I told you'd I'd forget about what I heard. Well, I lied.”

Fear moved behind her eyes. No beauty she, Betsy would be looking for jobs in worse places than the Savoy if I let her go. “I never forget,” I said. “You call me that name again and you're gone, do you understand?”