Four Furlongs Page 3

Gratton made no bones about itching to get back to the racetrack to hear about the racing accident. Who? What? How? The incident might even overshadow the derby coming up on Sunday, the final day of the fair.

  Even so, he took the time to walk me home from the police station—although the length of his strides meant I barely kept up. He was, he said, unwilling to let me traverse the streets of Spokane while carrying ten thousand four hundred dollars upon my person.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I told him, panting a little between every few words. “I walk alone every day and I’ve only ever been accosted once.”

  “You don’t carry ten thousand dollars with you every day,” he retorted. “And I want to keep my eyes on Mickelson’s bearer’s bond until it’s locked in our safe.”

  “No one knows I have it.” I checked my purse’s clasp to make sure it was still latched. A testament to the purse’s sturdy construction considering the weight of twenty double eagles, enough to drag on my arm. It’s no wonder I lagged a few steps behind.

  Grat took my elbow and pulled me out of the path of a man weaving down the center of the boardwalk. “Some of these yahoos can hone in on money like hound dogs after a cat. And they’re not real careful how they treat the person they’re stealing from. A man like Jimsy ... he’s meek as a mouse compared to them. I won’t have you hurt, China.”

  A little thrill shivered through me at that. He really did care about me. He just wasn’t good at showing it—most of the time. At other times? A bigger thrill shivered.

  “Don’t worry.” I drew my hatpin a few inches from my boater and shoved it back in again. “I do have defenses, if you remember.” I referred to the time I’d stabbed this same enamel-headed pin right through the cheek of a very bad man. He’d yelled like a baby right up until the police arrested him.

  The reminder drew a grin. “Who could forget?” Grat said. “But you might not always be so lucky.”

  By this time we were nearly home and I had no reason to argue further.

  Home is a brick building butted right up against others of its ilk. The Doyle & Howe Detective Agency occupies the street level, and consists of the main room, a smaller, private room, and a largish area off the rear entrance. Stairs to the second floor jut upwards from there, with a commodious closet beneath them. The hall, as one might expect, is always dark and gloomy.

  We met my uncle Monk, with whom I live on the building’s upper floor, just leaving the office as we arrived. Although he was tickled pink to discover how well Gratton’s and my operation had transpired, he, too, had heard about the accident at the Corbin Park Racetrack and was anxious to acquire firsthand news.

  “May be something there for us,” he told Grat as he gave Nimble a pat on her funny little head. “I just got off the telephone with one of the racing commissioners, a feller named Lloyd Branston, a minute ago. He said the race committee heard there might be foul play involved and they want to relieve the public’s mind. Says they prefer their own people to look into it. Somebody other than the police. If we work it right, they’ll hire us.”

  Poor Lars. Even on the occasion his integrity was intact, he and the force were regarded with suspicion. And what did I know? He could even be at the center of this tragedy.

  “I’ll be right with you.” Gratton turned to me, his need for action sparking from his eyes, and written all over his handsome face. “Put the bond and the gold in the safe, China. I’ll get in touch with our client as soon as I get back.”

  I nodded. “I’ll prepare the bill for him.” It would give me something to do while the men were gone.

  “Wait.” He frowned. “We need to talk about the charges.”

  “No we don’t. Ten percent. Mr. Mickelson agreed to the deal and he signed the contract.”

  Gratton enjoyed the fruits of our labor well enough—much increased since I’d taken over keeping the agency’s books. He just had a problem with underrating the cost of his ... our ... services.

  “Leave those details to China,” Uncle Monk broke in. “She knows what she’s doing. Let’s go, Grat. Need to get to the track before Hansen’s bunch muddies up the scene.”

  My uncle is very good about supporting me, bless his soul.

  As soon as they left, I let Nimble into the backyard and waved to our neighbor as he dumped an armload of wood shavings atop a steadily growing pile. Cosimo Pinelli, a recent Italian immigrant, had acted as my bodyguard more than once. Judging by the increased sawdust, his cabinetmaking business was picking up as the economy slowly recovered from the panic of 1893.

  Inside, I did as Gratton had asked, stowing away the bearer’s bond and coins and giving a sigh of relief when they were safe. Only then did I draw the nine-inch hatpin from my hair and remove my boater. Jimsy, I reflected, twisting the pin between my fingers, should’ve had such an implement to keep his hat in place. Although, for the sake of our detective agency, I was grateful he hadn’t. Our client would be grateful, as well.

  Suppertime came and went before Monk and Gratton returned to the office. They were as subdued as I’d ever seen them, shaken by the sight of two dead racehorses and the mangled body of one young man.

  “Pretty grisly.” Monk shook his head in sorrow. “Met the boy’s mother and grandfather. Hell’uva deal.”

  “Sad. I still can’t quite figure what happened.” For Grat, admitting as much meant a puzzle indeed. “I’m glad you weren’t there, China.”

  Me, too, as I freely admitted.

  The annual fall Interstate Fair and Race Meet was supposed to be a time of family fun and friendly competition, although for some, friendly didn’t enter into the equation. A good many people took the races more seriously. Look at Jimsy Woodsmith and the folks he’d swindled.

  “The jockey was only a kid.” Monk corrected himself sharply when he thought I was too busy slamming pots on the cookstove to hear what he was saying. “A boy. Looked about twelve.”

  “Sixteen,” Grat said. “I heard his mother tell Shave Johnson.”

  “The reporter?” Monk frowned.

  “Yes. Funny thing. I talked to Shave myself today, at the station. I wonder ...” Grat’s voice drifted off.

  Ah. Now I knew who the man with the worn suit was. I’d seen his byline—and his flamboyantly written version of the news—in the paper quite often lately. As well as being a rather poor writer, he struck me as a rabble-rouser.

  “You wonder what?” Monk asked.

  Grat’s mouth pursed. “What she—the O’Dell woman—meant when she said, ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen. They said they’d take care of—.’ Then she shut up, real quick-like. She walked away from Shave and wouldn’t answer any more questions, not even when he offered her money. And if you noticed, their whole outfit looked like a ragtag bunch of stump farmers who could use any dollar offered. Not like they owned the odds-on Spokane Derby favorite. Today’s race was supposed to be just a warm-up for him.”

  “So those are the folks who own Mercury, eh? Guess I didn’t realize their own kid was riding him.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not husband and wife,” Grat said. “Grandfather and mother with some Frenchie-sounding name. I think there’s another kid, too.”

  My heart ached for them.

  I laid out plates, utensils and cups on the dining-room table. None of us had much appetite for overcooked food grown dry as chaff. The beefsteak was tough enough to pull teeth.

  “Eat up.” I slapped a bowl of buttered carrots on the table beside boiled spuds, milk gravy, and a platter of the beef. It would have to do. The meal had been edible once. It was the men’s own fault if it no longer was.

  The thing was, neither Monk nor Grat seemed to notice, chewing methodically and talking between bites. I concentrated on sawing tiny chunks off my steak, Nimble receiving her share under the table, until Monk said, “Branston told me he wants to hire us to prevent any more ‘accidents.’ He’s got to clear the expense with the racing committee, but he says he’s had a run-in with Lars Hansen before. He do
esn’t know who the bluecoats might be working for.” He spoke softly, with a sideways glance at me.

  My uncle thought I was interested in Lars, silly man. My silly uncle, I mean, not Lars. I knew enough never to tell Lars anything about our business. Lord knows I’d been told often enough. Which didn’t stop me from flirting the least little bit with him upon occasion.

  Yes. I knew it irritated Gratton. So?

  “When will Branston know about the job?” Grat perked up at this news. Never far from any of our minds, the lack of money loomed over our heads. The agency had taken a bit of a hit during our adventure last August. Monk was still recovering after getting shot.

  “By morning.” Monk shoveled a big bite of spuds and gravy into his mouth, manipulating his fork to keep from smearing gravy into his droopy mustache. “He’s worried about something going wrong on the seventeenth. The derby has to go off without a hitch or his name’ll be mud and he’ll be the one out of a job.”

  “He will? The racing committee doesn’t get paid, does it?” I sipped water, washing down a final bite of steak.

  Monk laid his cutlery neatly across his plate. “In a manner of speaking, but they’re paid in more than money, lambie. Influence, power, connections. A different kind of currency, one often more valuable than cash.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” The penny dropped. I should’ve known. I’ve learned rich people think about wealth every bit as much as the rest of us, but not necessarily in the same way. “Like Mr. Corbin allowing use of the land the racetrack is on and having people beholden to him.”

  Monk laughed. “He keeps a pretty close watch on it. You wouldn’t think he’d worry about money so much considering the way he acquired the land.”

  Grat shrugged. “Bought up an unpaid loan. There’s nothing illegal about the deal. And he is supporting the racetrack.”

  “For now,” Monk agreed.

  Finished with his meal, Gratton pushed back his chair and changed the subject. “Did you get Mickelson’s invoice typed out, China?”

  “Indeed I did.” I couldn’t prevent a smug smile. “And not a single error on it.”

  He grinned back. “Good for you. I’ll take the invoice and the recovered items around to his hotel this evening. He should be finished with his dinner, by now.”

  “Seeing what you have for him ought to aid his digestion.” Monk patted his own flat belly, sounding a bit happier.

  “Remember the math,” I warned Grat, jumping up to begin clearing the table. “Our agreed upon fee is ten percent of the bond and gold pieces, which is fourteen hundred dollars of the combined value. Do not settle for the gold if that’s all he offers.” It was the best bit of business we’d done since I came to work here, and the easiest to complete.

  Gratton, in the act of retrieving his hat from the hall tree beside the apartment entry door, swatted it against his knee. “Doggone it, China, I know. You’ve told me twice already. And Mickelson will probably do it, too, the cheap son of a gun.”

  Heat rose in my face. There. I’d gone and aggravated him again by pointing out the obvious, but really, Gratton was no kind of businessman. And unfortunately, neither was my uncle. On the other hand, they’re excellent investigators.

  “He’ll respond better with a formal bill, the terms set out in black-and-white,” I assured him.

  Downstairs, in the office, the telephone rang. Being on my feet and the one nearest the stairs, I dashed down the steps to answer the peremptory summons—not to mention escaping a discussion that threatened to become a bit hostile.

  “Here is Main five, five,” I breathed into the receiver.

  “Oh, I was about to hang up,” the girl at Central said. “One moment, I’m plugging you in.”

  “Good evening,” a mellifluous voice greeted me. “This is Lloyd Branston. Have I reached the residence of Mr. Montgomery Howe?”

  “You have, sir. One moment, please, and I’ll fetch him.” There wasn’t much in the way of fetching. Monk and Gratton had followed me downstairs and stood one on either side of me.

  After a beat, I handed the receiver to Monk. He doesn’t mind speaking on the telephone; he just avoids answering it.

  A low-voiced conversation ensued, during which Grat opened the safe and took out the Mickelson trove. Gold stowed in his money belt, bond in his inside jacket pocket with my typed invoice folded around it, he waited for Monk to finish.

  And soon he did, saying, as he replaced the receiver, “We’re on. Branston held a special meeting and the committee agreed. Partly, anyhow. We begin tomorrow.”

  Grat nodded slowly. “Partly? I know Branston is uneasy and suspicious of today’s horse-and-rider accident, but what, exactly, will be our job?”

  Monk shrugged. “Simple security, he says. See nothing else goes wrong, even if it’s something as nonthreatening as a jockey with a hangover and prone to fall off his horse. We’re to keep our ears open about betting trends, and our eyes peeled for money changing hands where it shouldn’t.”

  Phooey. I knew the men would never let me anywhere close to the action.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “Mind the office,” Monk said. “Answer the telephone.”

  “Keep the books,” Gratton added. “Greet any potential clients with your pretty smile.”

  Rats! I was back to the small stuff again. I can’t understand why men get to have all the fun.

  4

  Uncle Monk awakened me early the next morning—by accident, I think, not design. He was preparing his own breakfast and may have wanted help without actually asking for it. The clatter of a cast-iron frying pan banging onto the stove top was accompanied by a great many ouches and blasts. Whether he suffered from self-inflicted knife cuts, or scalds from not letting the coffee settle before pouring, I found it wiser not to rise and inquire.

  When I heard him leave, I got up, aware there’d be a lengthy session of kitchen cleaning ahead of me.

  Nimble, ever helpful, was a dab hand at licking egg yolk from the floor, so I decided against wielding the mop. Monk’s lady friend, Mavis Atwood, who doubled as his housekeeper, was scheduled to clean tomorrow. Apparently she liked this type of job. Or maybe she just liked my uncle. I couldn’t blame her. I liked him, too, messy though he might be.

  Anyway, since Mavis would be there the next day, I simply ran a feather duster over the tabletops, washed up the breakfast things, and called it good. I was happy to get downstairs, unlock the office door and turn the closed sign to open, ready in case any stray business opportunities occurred. I settled behind my desk and turned the ledger page to the current day.

  My uncle had filled out one of the expense forms I’d created for him and Grat and put it on my desk. I pulled it forward and began totting up the costs. He universally underestimated the hours he spent on the job, so I added twenty percent to his total and went from there.

  Gratton was every bit as careless regarding his timekeeping as my uncle. Sometimes I wondered if he ghosted through his assignments, but his sheet from yesterday’s Mickelson adventure looked more realistic than usual. Probably because I’d been with him during the collar of Jimsy Woodsmith.

  Although, I noticed, he hadn’t charged for my time. I soon corrected the omission and made a note for later reference. Gratton and Monk needed to factor me in. I insisted.

  Between the two forms, I was busy at my Smith Premier writing machine when the door swung ajar. Nimble, asleep at my feet, stirred as I looked up, a smile on my lips.

  The door closed, apparently just as it had opened, of its own volition.

  Strange. I hadn’t realized a breeze had arisen. When I glanced through the plate-glass front window, dust from the traffic on the street rose straight up instead of sideways. No sign of wind there, either.

  I’d just settled my fingers on the typewriter keys again when the door squeaked on its hinges, then stopped halfway. A shadow darkened the aperture, but no one appeared.

  Slowly, the door began closing again.

>   “Hi,” I called out. “Please do come in. I don’t bite.” Nimble got to her feet, ambled over and poked her head into the opening. “And neither does my dog.” Her whippy tail swished.

  “Aren’t you a funny one?” a young, female voice whispered. I heard a giggle, hastily muffled.

  Nimble’s tail beat faster. Whoever the soft voice belonged to must’ve been getting a licking.

  “Come in,” I said again.

  Nimble nosed the door wide enough to reveal the girl standing outside. A girl, although not a particularly ladylike one, I observed. She was probably an undersized fourteen or fifteen years old and wore loose denim jeans held up by suspenders, a red-plaid shirt, and boots. Hair so dark brown it was almost black hung down her back in a long, thick single braid. Huge brown eyes peeped from within a fringe of dark lashes. Her skin was clear and fresh.

  In all, she’d have been quite beautiful even clad in her outlandish male clothes if they’d only fit a little better, or if her hair had been fluffed to soften her hollow cheeks. Or if her eyes had not been red from crying.

  Crying.

  When ladies enter Doyle & Howe Detective Agency weeping, it generally means a new client and a new problem has arrived on our doorstep.

  My interest piqued. “Are you in trouble?” I asked, then chastised myself inwardly for phrasing my question in those words. I hoped she wasn’t “in trouble.” She was too young and looked too innocent.

  She didn’t seem to notice my faux pas. “Yes,” she said with nary a blush. I got the impression she and I might have different ideas about what constituted trouble. In this case, at least.

  “How can I help?” I asked as she finally worked up her nerve to step inside. I believe if it hadn’t been for my dog, she might still have run away.

  The girl’s small white teeth chewed at her lower lip. She stared around the room, taking in the tin ceiling, wooden floors, and even the typewriting machine on my sturdy oak desk. “I want to see the detective, Mr. Howe,” she finally said. Her voice trembled.