Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 17

I stepped back in shock, and Irene took the opportunity to scurry away, her hand protecting her side.

The orchestra went to the street for their eight o’clock call. Ray came out of the gambling hall, a warning arm tossed not-very-casually around a young dandy’s slight shoulders. Ray released the boy and pushed him away with a growled threat that had him heading for the door. Ray smiled at Irene and reached out to touch her arm. I pushed through the crowd to reach them, sensing trouble.

A glass shattered on the floor, and a young miner, still coated by the dust of the digs, took a swing at another man. The few dancers who’d lingered in the bar to chat up their prospective customers screamed in delighted terror.

With a longing glance at Irene, Ray headed to break up the fight and she slipped away.

Richard Sterling and a sergeant, short and stocky, came though the doors. At the sight of the police, all the fight drained out of the two men, and they left with no more trouble.

Sterling’s companion crossed over the invisible line into my private space. His nose lay almost flat against his right cheek, and he was missing a couple of teeth. I held out my hand to stop him from coming any closer. He took it. I’ve known ninety-year-old women to have a stronger handshake. “Mrs. MacGillivray. A pleasure to meet you, at last. I’ve heard so much about you. Your son is a…”

“Sergeant Lancaster,” Sterling shouted, “I suggest we follow those fellows and make sure they don’t get up to any more trouble.”

“Who?” “The men who were fighting.” I ignored the constable and smiled at the Sergeant.

“You’ve met my son, Sergeant?”

“A fine boy, a fine boy. He’ll make an excellent…”

“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. MacGillivray, Walker.” Sterling almost shoved Lancaster towards the door.

“How odd,” I said to Ray as we watched them leave.

“Fee, if I had a shillin’ for every odd thing that happened in Dawson in a day…”

I remembered Irene. If Ray saw the state she was in, he’d be on the warpath for sure, no questions asked. Not that I needed to ask many myself. She’d left the Savoy last night with Jack Ireland and arrived at work today much the worse for wear.

“Can I have a break, Mr. Walker?” Murray, the new blond bartender, asked. The other young bartender was busy ferrying bottles of Champagne to the private boxes in the dance hall. Probably time I learned his name.

“No.”

“Please, Mr. Walker. I really need to…you know,” the boy whinged. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes and blushed.

“Five minutes,” Ray snapped, taking the boy’s place behind the bar with a considerable degree of ill grace. Helen came out of the back room with mop and bucket to clear up the broken glass and shooed drinkers out of her way.

I took a good long look around the bar. For once everything was quiet. The drinkers stood in polite groups, speculating as to which of the fellows in their circle would be next to strike it rich. Funny how they all still thought that big money was waiting to be made out on the claims. Such fortune had finished long ago, by Yukon standards. The only people making money any more were the dig owners like Big Alex Macdonald, the business types like Belinda Mulroney and Mr. Mann, and the dance hall owners. Like me. All the poor fellows still streaming into town by raft or steamboat or foot? Nothing left for them but to scratch out work labouring for someone else.

The door swung open, and Graham Donohue walked in, as bold as a fat tick feasting on the back of a short-haired dog. He puffed on a freshly lit cigar, looked around the room, saw me watching, waved cheerfully, and stood apart from the crowd, confident that I would join him.

I did. “Thought you were in jail, Graham.”

“Fortunately, my reputation in this town preceded me, and they released me on my own good name.”

I snorted.

“That’s a most unladylike sound, Fiona. You should take care to control it.”

“Graham…”

“I saw something interesting from my cell this morning,” he said. “I’ve heard that there’s an old sergeant who’s set up a boxing ring behind the jail. Let me order a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Graham, I have absolutely no interest in the comings and goings at the Fort Herchmer jail.”

“Fiona…”

“Don’t Fiona me. If you cause one single scrap of trouble, I’ll have you outside in the mud in seconds flat. I’ve had a week of nothing but men strutting around like peacocks with their best tail feather missing, fights and brawls, injured dancers.”

He smiled softly. “You’re protecting your arm. Have you been to see the doctor about it?”

“I’ll go when I have the time. Which will probably be sometime late January. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“One drink, my fair lady. And I’ll tell you the story of my night in the foul dungeons of Fort Herchmer.”

“Graham,” I said, “I have a job to do.”

“Very well. We’ll talk later.” Graham left me, presumably to entertain all and sundry with the tragic story of his incarceration. They’d be invading the fort ready to rescue French counts locked into iron masks in the ancient cellars by the time Graham had finished.

I’d begun to hope that the night would be relatively uneventful, when Jack Ireland strolled into the dancehall.

He surveyed the room, his gaze smooth, cool, arrogant. His shirt was white, his heavy gold pocket watch ostentatious, a diamond stickpin in his paisley silk cravat.

Irene’s dance finished and, rather than taking her partner to buy a drink, as was part of her job, she pushed him away. Sam stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to the private boxes, clutching a fistful of empty champagne bottles. Ray forgot that he was about to evict someone and loosened his grip on the man enough that the reprobate ducked back into the press of patrons. Helen Saunderson stood in the shadows wringing her rough hands on a tattered dishrag and watching Ireland.

He walked toward me, exchanging greetings with men as he passed. “Front page coverage in the San Francisco Standard this week, Mrs. MacGillivray. Collins, come over here!” He waved an arm. “You’ll be a hero, like I promised you.”

Sam scuttled out of the room. He touched Helen’s arm as he passed and drew her away.

“What did I say? All I want to do is make those two famous, and they act like I’ve poisoned their tea.”

“I think, Mr. Ireland, that they’re entitled to their privacy. We’re a strange bunch up here in the Yukon. If a man or woman wants to be left alone, we believe one should respect that.”

He genuinely looked confused. “Privacy? You can’t eat privacy. Soon as my story runs, people will be pouring money into the Standard offices. To buy Mrs. Saunderson and her children out of bondage.”

“If you…”

He held up a hand.

“Now hear me out, Fiona.”

“Mrs. MacGillivray.”

“Fiona. Those nice people in San Francisco don’t know or care that this isn’t some cheap whorehouse you’re running here. They want to help an unfortunate family out of their troubles. And if it makes people feel good to help, I’m not going to criticize them.”

“Oh, stop your nonsense,” I said. “A lie is a lie.” Ireland had lost interest in the debate and turned away.

Irene watched him from the far side of the room, and he studied her lazily. “Whatever you say, Fiona.” He cocked his index finger, and Irene brushed aside the man holding his ticket up to her and walked towards us. You could have shattered her smile with an ice pick.

“Mr. Ireland, good evening.”

“Irene, my dear. Can I have the honour of this dance?”

She nodded, and they swept into the music. Irene moved with as much enthusiasm as the wooden planks beneath her feet, but my girls know they can reject the offers of any man who they fear might mean them harm. I blended back into the crowd, encouraging men to dance.

Irene danced almost every dance with Ireland. They made a nice looking couple, although I didn’t care for the way he tossed her about the floor as if she were his own private property, nor for the flashes of pain that crossed her face.

I planted myself in the dance hall to keep an eye on them, although I normally spent the night passing between the hall, the saloon and the gambling rooms, the latter being where the most serious fights were likely to start. Graham Donohue stayed in the bar, and Ray Walker came in now and again, scowling.

“Everything all right here, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Richard Sterling stood beside me, all looming bulk, crisp red tunic, neat brown pants, high, shiny boots and broad-brimmed hat. I took a step back.

“Sorry,” he said, colouring slightly.

“Everything’s perfectly fine, Constable. Thank you.”

He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be on my rounds, if you need me.”

I watched the dancing for a while longer. Irene didn’t smile. Her countenance was dark and troubled, but she still danced with Ireland. Maybe I’d been wrong and she’d fallen down the stairs at her rooming house. It had been known to happen, just not as often as stiff-minded matrons and pompous priests liked to believe.

It was Saturday, so we didn’t have much time left until midnight closing. I was looking forward to going home and crawling into my narrow bed for the only full night’s sleep I enjoyed all week. Hopefully Mrs. Mann would have left some of that magical poultice out.

I was standing at the far side of the room, up against the back wall, trying to stifle a yawn, when the orchestra called out, “Take your partners for the next dance,” and for a brief moment everyone shifted so that a space opened up before me, leading all the way to the door.

In which I saw Jack Ireland dragging a reluctant Irene behind him.

I practically sprinted to catch up with them, almost tripping over the train of my dress, which was just long enough to wrap itself around my feet. I wrenched the train out of my way with a muffled curse. Surprised faces watched me fly past.

“…out of this dump,” Ireland was growling as I arrived within hearing range.

“I’d just as soon not leave right now.” Irene’s voice was as low as a whisper made to a lover, but not nearly as welcoming. “Mrs. MacGillivray won’t like it.”

“Never mind Mrs. MacGillivray. Stick with me, and you won’t have to kow-tow to the likes of her again.”

“Did I hear my name?” I stumbled to a stop in front of them, yanking at my skirts to pull the tumble of fabric out from under my feet. “Had enough dancing, Mr. Ireland? It’s almost closing time, anyway. Irene, please go up to my office, I have to talk to you about last week’s hours. There seems to be a slight problem.”

“Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said with such a gush of gratitude that it was clear I hadn’t been mistaken as to what had happened after she’d left with Ireland the previous night. There had been no tumble down the backstairs.

“Irene,” he said, “I’m leaving. And you’re coming with me.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to,” I said. Ireland turned his black eyes on me. I didn’t look away: I’ve been stared down by harder men than he. “But it is most definitely time for you to leave, Mr. Ireland.”

“You just wait until you see what my paper has to print about you.”

“What? That I serve nothing but toasted crumpets and tea and hold secret revival meetings behind locked doors every evening? That’s the only thing you could write that would hurt my business. You haven’t been in Dawson long, Mr. Ireland, and I suggest that you don’t make your visit last any longer.”

“Come on, Irene, let’s get out of here.” His hand closed around her arm.

“Irene,” I said, “you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. MacGillivray. I’m staying. I’m sorry, Jack, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided not to go to San Francisco with you.”

Ireland’s eyes bulged, and a purple vein throbbed in the side of his neck. He tightened his grip on Irene’s arm, and she grimaced. “You’re making a mistake, Irene. I can make you a star.”

“I don’t want to be a star.” Her voice broke as she tried pry his hand off her. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I suggest you release her, Mr. Ireland,” I said, conscious of the press of men gathering around, attracted by our angry words.

He released Irene, turned to me, and shoved me in the chest with such force that I lost my footing and fell backwards. Eager hands caught me, and I struggled to pull myself free.

Ireland turned his attentions back to Irene. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. A section of her hair flew out of its pins. “I’ve paid you good money. You’re bought now, like a whore. You’re coming with me.”

“I don’t want to.”

He slapped her across the face, hard.

Men’s boasting voices and women’s false laughter died away; musicians stopped playing mid-note; dancers froze mid-step. One man snickered, the laugh cut short.

Ireland pulled back his fist and punched my best dancer full in the stomach. The blood drained from her face, and Irene folded over and vomited.