Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 13

“He lose much?” Sterling asked.

“’Bout five thousand,” Jake said, his face showing not a glimmer of emotion as he gathered up chips. “Fellow’s been in here since opening. That last bet musta wiped him out.” Jake was nattily dressed in a stiff white wing-tip collar, a colourful silk neck piece and sharp bowler hat. His enormous black moustache curled up at the edges. Turning his attention back to the job, he spun the big wheel. “No more bets.”

“What a fool,” Sterling mumbled. But he wasn’t surprised. He’d seen as much, more, lost and won in one hand of poker or one throw of the dice.

The dim space of the gambling room always reminded Sterling of the shack of a church his father had preached in all the years of his childhood. The walls were cheap wood, the floorboards no better, the kerosene lamps much too dim. Men crowded into the room as eager to make their fortune at the tables as Reverend Sterling had been to save the souls of his flock. The results would be the same— disappointment and despair.

The smoke in the poorly ventilated room was so thick, it was difficult to see the far side of the room, where a serious poker game was underway. Mouse O’Brien sat at the table: the game would be nothing but serious. O’Brien was a giant of a man, not much off seven feet tall, with a chest the size of that of an ox, and shoulders and thighs to match. He kept his hair cut short and his moustache neatly trimmed and wore custom-made suits, starched white shirts, and a diamond stick pin in his perfectly folded cravat. He always carried a bag containing a pair of spare shoes to put on in place of his muddy boots whenever he walked through any door. He was called “Mouse”, a nickname he accepted with good grace—recognizing that he had no choice in the matter—ever since he’d been heard to squeal, as loudly as a pigtailed schoolgirl, when a tiny brown field mouse had crossed his path on the trail to Bonanza Creek.

Stacked in neat rows on the green-baize table in front of Mouse was a pile of chips. His big hands dwarfed the cards he held, and the only man left in the game, of the table of four, sweated heavily. Johnny Jones, who had more money than skill. Or nerve. Sterling stood behind Jones. The dealer’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

Jones had a good hand—three tens. Good but not great. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. Mouse looked up from his cards and spoke to one of the men watching. “Get me a drink, will you, friend. I can’t leave the table right now. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Jones folded. The edges of Mouse’s lips turned up as he raked in the pot. Sterling would have bet a month’s wages that the big man’s hand had been garbage.

“I’m finished.” Jones got up from the table, moving heavily. “Holy Christ, I’m wiped out.”

“Language, Johnny,” Sterling cautioned.

Jones threw him an ugly look. Sterling braced for a confrontation. It wouldn’t be the first time a heavy loser had looked for someone on whom to take out his anger.

“Good game, Mr. Jones,” Mouse said, as he checked his gold pocket watch. “Thank you for the sport, and let me offer you this.” Mouse held a small gold nugget between his fingers. “Get yourself in another game.” Jones considered the offer, pride struggling with greed. He snatched the gold and headed for the faro table.

“That wasn’t necessary, Mouse,” Sterling said. “He wouldn’t have taken me on.”

Mouse shrugged his shoulders, like glacier ice shifting on the mountains. “Boy can’t play worth a damn…doggone… but he can’t give it up either. A man’s gotta feel sorry for him. Game’s over, boys. Time for my favourite lady to give me a song.” The giant gathered up his winnings and lumbered into the dance hall.

Sterling followed as Ruby’s thin, quaking voice struggled to the end of its song.

Like all the dance halls in Dawson, the one in the Savoy was considerably less than advertised. The tiny stage had been roughly carved out of green wood by workers who didn’t know or care what they were doing, and in a big hurry to get it done and move on to the next job. There were no windows, and the kerosene lamps smoked badly, but no one ever complained. Complaining in Dawson never got a man any further than out the door.

Flags—crossed Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes—had been draped above the stage and used to decorate the private boxes on the second story. Below the boxes, rows of uncomfortable benches, filled with cheering, stomping miners, surrounded the stage in a horseshoe pattern. The room was tightly packed with sweating bodies and clothes gone too long without a wash; cheap lamp oil and dancers’ cologne mingled with the generously applied scent of the toffs and the stink of the labourers. Over it all lay the smell of male anticipation and scarcely restrained excitement.

Ruby’s voice was nothing short of terrible, and the song she sang sickeningly sentimental, but some of the older men wiped away a tear or two as she dragged out the last, painful note.

The audience applauded wildly as Ruby curtsied, allowing the front of her low cut gown to hang temptingly open, and departed the stage. The men shifted in their chairs, sat just a bit straighter and whispered to their neighbours. Fiona MacGillivray stood at the back of the room, close to the wall. She had wiped most of the mud off her dress and her arm was bound in a sling of purest white cotton. Her thick black hair was pinned into a storm cloud behind her head, but stray tendrils caressed her temple and the back of her neck. Her dark eyes never stopped moving across the room.

Ray Walker stood beside Fiona, but unlike hers, his eyes were still, fixed directly on the stage. He could afford to take a break: at the climax of the stage show, the bar would be quiet for a few minutes.

A hush fell over the shabby room, lasting only as long as it took for a heart to give one beat. The orchestra held their instruments still, and the audience—grizzled old miners, tender-footed gold-seekers, hard-hearted gamblers, ruthless businessmen, Indian fighters with nowhere left to go, and one Scottish bartender—held their collective breath.

Irene stepped out from behind the curtain. Her gown, trimmed with fake jewels and sequins and tattered feathers, wouldn’t stand a close look, but no one was close enough, or concerned enough, to give it a thorough inspection. She held her arms out in front of her and began to sing. Her voice sounded rich and pure, and she sang the song from the depths of her heart while the orchestra struggled to keep up. Light from the kerosene lamps flickered across her face and cast her sharp cheekbones into high relief. Grizzled old miners listened to her with their hands held to their hearts and tears falling down their faces into their beards. Mouse O’Brien held a snowy white handkerchief to his eyes.

Irene’s song finished, and she curtsied to the audience as softy as an ostrich feather drifting to the floor. The men went wild, cheering and stomping their feet. Gold nuggets flew through the air. Irene gathered them up with a gracious smile, her eyes judging the worth of every one as she did so.

“Gentleman.” The caller crossed the stage once Irene had gathered her loot and departed. “Time to take your partners for a long, dreamy, juicy waltz.”

The benches were pushed to the sides of the room and men rushed forward, clutching the tickets that they’d bought for one dollar each. They thrust their ticket at a girl, the orchestra struck up, and the lucky men took their partner through a few hurried dance steps. Exactly one minute later, the music stopped, mid-note, as the onedollar dance came to an end. The girls dragged their man off to the bar so he could have the opportunity to buy a drink, whether he wanted one or not. The bartender then handed the girl a disk that she’d trade at the end of the night for her twenty-five cent share of the profits. The girls stuck their disks into the top of their stockings. This would carry on until six o’clock in the morning. By then, the more popular girls could scarcely walk for the weight encumbering their legs.

When Irene stepped onto the dance floor, her smile bright and her arms held out to her sides in invitation, a rush of men threatened to sweep her away.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” Fiona moved graciously through the crowd. “Behave yourselves. The night has only just begun. There’s plenty of time for everyone to enjoy a dance.”

Respectfully, the men stood back. Too bad, Sterling thought, women couldn’t join the NWMP: with Fiona MacGillivray on the force, no one would dare to put a foot out of place. He pushed aside the picture of thick black hair tucked into the pointed hat and lush curves straining the seams of the red coat.

Irene favoured Jack Ireland with a gracious nod and a flirtatious smile. The reporter slipped his arms around his prize’s ample form. She touched the back of his shoulders, and they moved into the dance.

Ray Walker growled low in his throat. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the bar, Ray?”

Fiona glared at him.

Graham Donohue planted himself directly in front of the dancing couple.

Ireland shifted Irene to guide her around the obstacle. Donohue stepped with them. They might have been a dancing trio. Ireland stopped. Irene twisted her head to see what was going on behind her. Fiona crossed the floor, pushing men and dance hall girls out of her way. One by one the couples on the floor drifted to a halt. The orchestra, knowing that no one was paying them any attention, stopped playing.

“If you’ll excuse us, partner,” Ireland said, his common man accent back in place. “Lady Irenee and me are havin’ ourselves a dance.”

“You’re in my territory, Ireland.” Donohue’s words were slurred. He leaned forward, trying to loom over the fractionally shorter older man. Ireland laughed without mirth and turned to Irene. “Fellow needs to learn that a newspaperman ain’t got a territory. In our business, it’s winner take all.” His eyes dropped to the scooped neck of Irene’s dress, leaving the onlookers in no doubt as to what the winner of this contest intended to claim.

Irene giggled, wiggled her hips, and attempted to flutter her stubby eyelashes.

An old-timer guffawed. “Ain’t that the truth, boy. And not just in the newspaper business, either.”

Ireland extended his arms to his dance partner.

Donohue took a swing at him.

He was an experienced fighter, had at least twenty years advantage, maybe more, on the reporter from San Francisco, and Ireland’s attention was distracted for the moment by the simpering Irene. But drink slowed Donohue down. Ireland saw the blow coming and, given a chance to play for the audience, pushed Irene out of the way, although she was in absolutely no danger, before pulling his head to one side so that the punch glanced off his cheek.

Irene staggered into the arms of a gambler who always dressed as if he were about to do immediate battle against the Plains Indians. Graham swung to deliver another, more accurate punch.

The room erupted.

“Twenty dollars on the old fellow,” someone yelled from deep inside the crowd of observers.

Coins, bills, nuggets and bags of gold dust flashed in answer. Men rushed in from the bar and the gambling hall to join the fun. They jostled for position, both to watch the fight and to lay bets.

Fiona MacGillivray pushed men out of the way and screamed directly into Donohue’s face in a most unladylike manner, spittle flying everywhere. “You’re banned, Graham. Out of here. Now!”

Ray Walker tried to force his way through the press of men and women to reach Irene. She smiled up at the man who’d caught her, realized that all eyes were on her and, with a light moan, sank into a swoon. Holding the fainting beauty in his arms, the lucky man called for brandy, room to breathe, and a doctor. He attempted to drag Irene out of the crush to safety, but not ready to leave the centre of attention quite yet, she smiled up at him, and with another moan and a shudder, which had all the men leaning forward, she courageously attempted to gather her strength.

“Ray,” Fiona said sharply, her eyes cold and dark. “Forget Irene and get Graham out of here.” Walker looked at Irene, and he looked at his business partner. Indecision tore at his life-battered face.

Sterling grabbed Graham’s wrist. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Donohue.”

“What?” Graham spat, twisting in the constable’s professional grip. “That goddamned bastard comes into my town, and you arrest me. What the hell for?”

“For the use of vile language, for one thing,” Sterling said. “But mainly for attacking a man thirty years older than you with no provocation in the full sight of a hundred men and several ladies.”

“Well, not quite thirty,” Ireland said, straightening his tie and smiling at the people around him. “There, there, fellow. Allow me to help the lady.” He eased Irene away from Ray, who had taken her from her rescuer. “My dear, shall we finish our dance?”

Donohue spluttered; Walker looked as if he were about to take a swing at Ireland himself.

“Ray,” Fiona snapped. “There’ll be a rush on the bar any minute now. You’d best get in there. And if you lot don’t start playing,” she shouted to the orchestra, “I’ll dock your pay. Dances begin again. One minute, starting now.” For a woman of such delicate, gently-brought-up appearance, Fiona MacGillivray could put on a voice like a sailor in the British Navy when she had a mind to. The orchestra launched directly into the middle of their tune, and the men grabbed their partners. At least forty seconds of dancing before the trouble started, then a minute or two spent standing with their girl, arm about waist if lucky, and another minute of dancing. For some of these men, who’d abandoned all in pursuit of gold, this was the only bit of good fortune they’d had in months. Ray Walker returned to his bar with a grumble, a nasty glance at Fiona, a longing look at Irene, and an angry grimace at Ireland. Sterling escorted Donohue out the door.

The man might have been drunk, and his protests were loud and effusive, but he knew better than to resist arrest.

“Fiona, Light of the Land of the Midnight Sun, you can’t do this to me. Tell this fine, upstanding Man-of-the Law to let me go.”

Fiona walked with them to the door. “The next time you set foot in my place, Graham Donohue, be on your knees.” Her black eyes burned like chips of coal consumed by a single red spark, deep inside. “You’ve cost me ten minutes of prime dancing time.” She looked at Sterling. “Throw away the key.” And with a toss of her head, which had the soft black tendrils that caressed her cheeks jumping, she plunged back into the crowd, encouraging men to go to the bar, to buy another dance ticket, maybe return to the tables for one more round of poker or spin of the roulette wheel.

Sterling relaxed his grip on his prisoner. “You’ve really messed this one up, Donohue. What came over you? Ireland’s a fool and a popinjay, but you don’t go picking a fight with every idiot in town. Didn’t know you had a fancy for Irene.”

“Irene.” Donohue shrugged, straightening his rumpled coat. “Plenty like her around. But that Ireland, don’t mistake him for a fool. Man’s trouble no matter where he goes.”

“You’ve met before?”

Donohue laughed, the sound cold and bitter. “You could say so. Lead the way to your finest cell, Constable.” The ugly laugh died, and his voice broke. “They won’t give me a blue ticket will they, Sterling? I’m counting on my stint in Dawson to make my reputation. Can’t we just forget about it? Pal.”

“Don’t insult me with a question like that again, Donohue, or I will recommend you get a card.” Sterling walked out into the strange half-night, confident that his prisoner would follow in his footsteps. A blue ticket was a serious matter, and the NWMP enforced the ban without mercy. They had no facilities, and no food, to care for a jail full of criminals, particularly through a long, desperate winter. Better all round to simply exile miscreants.

A girl who worked at one of the less reputable dance halls dashed by, giggling wildly, her red skirt and frothy white petticoats held almost up to her knees. A fat man in late middle age, well dressed in a severe dark suit topped by a stiff black hat, followed, trying to keep his footing in the mud and his eyes on his quarry at the same time. The girl tossed Sterling a cheerful wink, peered over her shoulder, squealed at the sight of her pursuer without the slightest alarm and lifted her petticoats higher. She was not wearing stockings, and her legs were thick and white. The man stumbled after her, struggling for breath.

The Vanderhaege sisters’ bakery was a reproachful dark patch in this street of the midnight sun, of painted, colourful women laughing too loud, and men drunk, if not on liquor at least on possibilities. Overhead, the tattered advertising banners and competing national flags cracked in the night’s stiff breeze.

“Tonight you’ll spend in jail,” Sterling said. “If you run into that Ireland fellow again, take my advice and keep well clear. This is your second offence, Donohue. Another one, and you will find yourself holding a blue ticket.”