Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 6

Promptly at five o’clock, I walked through the doors of the Savoy, barely avoiding being hit by a drunk that Ray and one of the bartenders were throwing out into the street.

I scarcely glanced at the patron as he flew past. Ray grinned at me. Despite the poor light, his stiff white shirt was so white it practically gleamed, and he’d combed his few strands of greasy hair. He returned to the bar, where men were lined up three deep.

The Savoy Saloon and Dance Hall. How I loved every ugly, hastily constructed, tottering, hideously decorated square foot of it. So cheap and gaudy, my acquaintances in London would have laughed out loud to see it. But it was mine. And there was nothing cheap about the money the place made for Ray and me.

The customers parted respectfully as I sailed into the room. I love a good parade, as long as I’m at the centre of it.

Barney, one of my regular customers, was slumped on a stool, his upper torso lying across the mahogany bar. But he kept talking as he entertained the younger men with tales of George Carmack, and the Indians Jim and Charlie, and of the first strike on Rabbit Creek, soon to be renamed Bonanza. Half of the men in his audience regarded him with eyes full of admiration, eager to hear again the story they’d heard a hundred times before. The other half were disbelieving and turned from the old prospector in disgust or dismissal. But Barney’s stories were all true—embellished perhaps, but still true. Barney had found gold. I’d say he wasted it on drink, dance-hall girls, and the sad women who plied their trade in the cribs of Paradise Alley, but I suppose he considered it to be money well spent. He’d had sixteen gold nuggets made into a belt for a birthday present to give to a girl working at the Horseshoe. She’d thanked him with a chaste kiss on the cheek, and the old fellow had just about fainted with the sheer joy of it. These days he passed his nights, and most of his days, in Front Street bars like mine, telling his stories and earning his whisky by the strength of his reputation.

A puddle of spilled liquor was spreading across the floor beneath the centre table, and I was about to signal to one of the bartenders to fetch a mop when the door flew open. A large man stood there, his eyes taking in the room. He was old for this gold-rush town, over sixty probably, and immaculately dressed in pin-striped trousers, a fresh white shirt and black jacket with stiff black waistcoat crossed by a watch chain of thick gold. A heavily-starched collar and perfectly straight bow tie clenched his fleshy neck with such force that it looked as if they were trying to strangle him. His black hat was clean and placed directly in the centre of his head. His face was tinged pink from a recent shave.

Sweeping off his hat in a flowing, liquid movement that reminded me of an actor in a stage show I’d seen in London many years ago, he approached me. It had been a very bad actor in a very bad play, which for some unknown reason had been the hit of the season.

“Indeed, I am at the right place,” he said, “for although your establishment is somewhat less than imposing from the outside, one glimpse of your ladyship and I understand that this must be the place of quality in Dawson.” His freshly cut red hair was faded and heavily streaked with grey.

I laughed. “Thank you, but I don’t think anyone has mistaken me for a ladyship before.” That was not exactly true. There had been that embarrassing encounter in Bath in 1889 with Lady Rickards-Sommerfield. Not embarrassing for me, of course, but for my gentleman companion it had marked the beginning of a downward spiral into social disgrace.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” He took my hand and touched it lightly to his lips. He wore immaculate white gloves. You didn’t see those in Dawson much. “Jack Ireland. San Francisco Standard.”

I snatched my hand back. “A newspaper reporter?”

Ireland misinterpreted my reaction. “Don’t worry, dear lady. I can see that your fine establishment is one to be celebrated. It will make wonderful background for my stories about Dawson and the Klondike.” His eyes passed over me and surveyed the room.

Following Ireland’s gaze, I saw my place.

It wasn’t much—a long mahogany bar lined one side, a few tables were scattered around the floor. The wallpaper in the saloon was an ostentatious red that clashed horribly with my best dress, but I’d chosen it nevertheless, partially because there was not much else to buy, but also because to uneducated, uncultured miners and labourers heavy red wallpaper spells “class”. The centre of the wall behind the bar was occupied by a portrait of Queen Victoria, looking every year of her advanced age. In honour of the two primary nationalities making up the population of the Yukon, we had stuck a Union Jack into the right of the frame and the Stars and Stripes into the left. On either side of the monarch hung a large painting of a voluptuous nude female, one black-haired, one fair.

At the Savoy we cater to all tastes.

I had never met our beloved monarch, but judging from stories I’d heard, some of them directly from the excessivelyindulged mouth of her eldest son, she wouldn’t have approved of us in the least. By London standards, even by Toronto standards, it was a hovel. But we made more in a night than most gaming house proprietors in Toronto or London could dream of earning in a week. We had so much custom that I sometimes wondered how everyone managed to fit inside. And no matter how much we charged, the customers kept streaming through the doors.

“Madam.” Ireland touched the brim of his hat and went to the bar. The men could tell a swell when they saw one, and they shifted to let him through. He shouted for a drink for himself and one for the men on either side.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the ornate, gilt-edged mirror hanging on the back wall. A large crack streaked across the entire width of the glass. The mirror had been dropped when it was hung, but this was Dawson: we were grateful for the slightest touch of opulence, and no one looked at anything very closely, not wanting to see the reality underneath.

I tugged lightly at my waist to pull the bodice lower and display my necklace better. A clean-shaven young man blanched and tossed down his drink in one swallow. He joined the crowd at the bar and shouted for another.

I went into the dance hall to check that Helen had laid out the chairs for the evening’s performance. When I returned, Jack Ireland, of the San Francisco Standard, was asking Rupert Malloy, one of the men enjoying the free liquor, how long he’d been in the Klondike. I knew the answer—two weeks. But Rupert could play the game, and he began spinning a tale of prospecting in the wilderness, fighting off bloodthirsty Indians, ravenous wolves, and greedy prospectors for a chance at the gleaming yellow metal. He paused and fingered his empty glass with a deep sigh. Ireland snapped his fingers at Sam Collins, the head bartender and our oldest employee.

“Don’t waste your time listening to Rup here,” said a man standing behind Ireland’s shoulder. “You want the real stories of the strike, can’t do no worse than speak to ol’ Barney over there.”

Ireland looked at Barney, almost snoring with his head resting on bar. At the sound of his name, Barney’s head jerked up. “So Injun Jim, he says to me…”

“Thanks for the tip, friend.” Ireland signalled for Sam to pour a drink for his informant and slid a few feet down the bar. The crowd shifted, like the waters of the Yukon River on a still day when a raft drifts by. Sam Collins’s weather- and life-worn face had gone pale, and he stared at the floor as he placed the glasses on the counter.

“Young man there says you know some stories of the strike of ’96.” Ireland slapped Barney on the back. The old man belched.

“Another drink for my friend here,” the newspaperman shouted.

Barney lifted his freshened glass in one worn paw. “Summer of ’96,” he said before toppling forward, planting his face into a puddle on the shiny mahogany bar.

Ray moved before I had time to snap my fingers. Sam had turned his attention to a newly arrived pack of Yankees, still wet behind the ears from river water, so Ray yelled at the new boy to give him a hand. Together they lifted Barney off his stool. The crowd parted to let them through.

Ireland picked up his drink and walked over to me. “Bet you have some stories to tell.” He spoke directly to my cleavage.

“No,” I said. “Not a one. If you’ll excuse me…”

He grabbed my upper arm. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Talk in the room stopped as abruptly as if it had been scripted. Everyone stared at us, frozen in place, mouths open, glasses half-raised. They looked as if they were performing in a tableau for the entertainment of the Prince of Wales.

I stared at Ireland’s hand, before lifting my eyes to his face. “Release me,” I said.

He looked at me, and I tensed, expecting trouble. He backed down and let go. As one, the clientele let out a single breath and returned to their drinks.

Ireland knew he’d lost face. His cheeks were red, his eyes small, dark and cold. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, and a vein throbbed in his neck.

I smiled my best dance hall hostess smile. “Have you had a look into our gaming rooms, yet, Mr. Ireland? The finest roulette wheel in Dawson. And of course, we have faro and poker as well.”

The reporter didn’t return my smile. “Quite the piece of work, aren’t you, Miss…?” His grammar and accent seemed to shift, depending on to whom he was speaking. He’d been excessively formal with me when first we met, his speech turning coarser and rougher when he talked with the men around the bar.

“Mrs,” I said. “Mrs…” I bit my tongue, remembering, just in time, what I was talking to. A newspaper reporter.

“Mrs. what?” He snapped, reading layers of meaning into my hesitation, a skill he would have honed to perfection in order to succeed in his business.

There was no point in not telling him my name. Everyone in town knew it. Besides, it was unlikely that anyone in London read North American newspapers, and in Toronto I’d used another name.

“Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray, at your service, sir. Please allow me to escort you into the gambling room.”

“MacGillivray. I’ll remember that.” He turned on his heels, and the bar hangers-on parted to let him through.

Ireland slapped his money down on the counter. But this time no one rushed to serve Mr. Ireland of the San Francisco Standard. The new bartender, so new I didn’t know his name, had returned and was busy at the far end. There was no sign of Ray, and Sam was dusting off the whisky bottles behind the bar as if we didn’t have a customer in the place. The man wasn’t deaf or blind, surely he could see the anxious faces of rows of would-be-drinkers reflected in the glass protecting her Majesty’s visage, which hung directly in front of his face.

“Bartender!” Ireland shouted, his face turning redder, the too-ample flesh around his tight collar bulging at the insult of being ignored when he had a full bar watching him. Sam turned and asked a short, fat man with a full glass in front of him if he’d like another. Our head bartender was very pale.

“What the hell does it take to get a drink around here?” The new bartender heard the shouting, and with a questioning glance at Sam’s back, abandoned his end of the bar and rushed to serve the reporter with the deep pockets and the pack of new-found friends. Sam halfturned to check what was going on behind his back.

A man pushed up to the counter and bellowed for a drink. Sam poured him a whisky, his hand shaking so badly that almost as much liquor splashed on the counter as landed in the glass.

“I can tell you some stories, city fellow.” A rough hand slapped Ireland’s back, and the reporter’s attention shifted.

Sam tossed a look at the other bartender and slipped away, avoiding my angry eyes. Going for his break, although it was early, and not a good idea in any event, what with Ray away seeing to Barney. I began to follow Sam to ask if he were feeling sick. He’d have to be on death’s door, he’d have to be on the other side of death’s door, to be allowed to go home early on a night that was shaping up to be as busy as this one.

“Fee!” A man burst through the door, beaming widely and holding his arms out. “What an honour. Here you are standing at the door, waiting to greet me.”

I caught a glimpse of Sam Collins disappearing into the crowded street as I permitted the new arrival to give me a hug. It felt nice to be held in a man’s arms, warm and close and safe, but I pulled away after the briefest moment of indulgence. Better not to get men’s hopes up. It spoils them. “Graham,” I said, “you’re back.”

“In the flesh. You look wonderful, Fiona.”

I smiled. Of course I looked wonderful. I always look wonderful. But I never mind hearing it. “How are things out on the Creeks?”

“It’s incredible. Let me tell you, my dear, it’s like the inside of a beehive on a sunny day.” Graham Donohue had been visiting the goldfields, collecting stories from the miners. He pulled off his hat and scratched at his black hair, normally kept short and neat, now hanging rough at the back of his neck. “Sorry, Fee,” he said with a grimace. He plopped his dust-coated hat back on his head. “Think I picked up something that crawls out there.”

I stepped back. “Really, Graham, you might have had a bath and a haircut before coming here.”

“I couldn’t last another minute without seeing your fair face. Why, the memory of you was all that kept me going through the long days and nights out on the Creeks.”

I snorted. In a ladylike manner, of course. “Ran out of whisky, did you?”

“Any excitement in town during my absence?” Graham took my elbow and led me away from the crowd spilling off the street into the saloon. A roar from the gambling room announced that someone was a winner. For the moment anyway. A small crowd poured back into the bar, led by the winner, sharing his good fortune with all and sundry. The new bartender sweated profusely and poured drinks as fast as he could move. I was impressed; he’d risen to the pressure of the moment.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I said to Graham.

He laughed. When he was clean and respectable, Graham Donohue was an extraordinarily handsome man. His nose had been broken a few times, but so good was the bone structure of his face that it scarcely mattered. His cheekbones, high in a thin face, were accented by expressive hazel eyes trimmed by lashes so thick that my dance hall girls swooned over them. He was my height, and so slightly built that he verged on scrawny. Graham’s complexion was clear and unlined, and his warm eyes usually sparkled as if they were planning some act of schoolboy mischief such as dipping the pigtails of the girl sitting in front of him into the inkwell. In an attempt to look more his age, he sported a bushy, ferocious moustache that gave him some whimsical charm: so incongruous in his childish face that he looked like a boy who couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to grow up. The slight, boyish exterior concealed a heart as tough as they come. He was a reporter for a major American newspaper, determined to make his name in the Klondike.

Graham Donohue was exactly my type: not too large, apparently unassuming, handsome. And he worshiped the liquor-spotted, spat-upon, sawdust-coated, cheap wooden planks that I walked on.

But I wasn’t in Dawson looking for a man.

“There’s someone new in town you might like to meet,” I said. “A reporter from San Francisco.”

The seductive grin disappeared immediately. “Who?”

“Jack Ireland’s his name. From the San Francisco Standard, I believe.”

“Where?”

“At the front of the bar. Older guy, well dressed, big crowd standing around him.”

Graham didn’t give me a second glance and pushed his way through the crowd. Curious, I rounded the bar.

Ray walked back into the saloon. “Where’s Sam?”

“Left in a big hurry. I don’t know why.”

“No’ back in five minutes, and he’s gone.” Ray turned into a blur of motion, pouring drinks, taking money, weighing gold, listening to men’s talk.

He managed the bar and gambling room staff; I kept the books and handled the money, supervised the performers and dancers, and attracted the customers. We made a good team, Ray and I.

Graham elbowed men aside to stand face-to-face with Ireland. My friend had his hands on his hips and his chin thrust forward. Ireland smirked with a sort of sick pleasure that gave me an uncomfortable feeling deep in my stomach.

“Jack Ireland,” Graham said. “I’m surprised you’re not in hell yet.”

“Nice to see you, too, Donohue, my boy. How’s your dear sister these days?” Ireland turned to his drinking partners. “This lad and I go back a long way, boys.”

“What are you doing here, Ireland?”

“Working on a story, my lad. Same as you, I figure.”

“This is my patch, Ireland. I’ll thank you to stay the hell out of it. And don’t you dare mention my sister again.”

Ireland threw back his head and laughed. A gold tooth reflected light from the lamps filled with cheap oil. “A real reporter doesn’t put claim to a ‘patch’, boy. Not like a miner marking his stake. A real reporter knows there’s more than enough news to go around.”

Graham’s face was turning red, which had the unfortunate effect, regardless of the bristling moustache and the layers of mining dirt, of making him look as if he were on the verge of a temper tantrum.

“Ray,” I said, “I think…” Graham took a swing, but his arm was inhibited by the press of men at the bar. The space surrounding the San Francisco reporter had been thick before, but at the first suggestion of a fight, the people standing at the back shuffled forward to get a good look.

With no momentum to back it up, Graham’s blow bounced lightly off Ireland’s cheek. The drinkers in striking range stepped back, causing a jam as the two groups of onlookers came together. I knew, along with all the regulars, that Graham’s next punch would have the older man on the floor. Graham had been a champion boxer in his school days. Slight boys often have to be if they’re going to survive a New England boy’s school.

Ray leapt across the bar, sending men scattering every which way before him. He was a small man, but in Ray’s case his growth had been stunted by the ill-nourishment of a Glaswegian childhood rather than by genes. Ray had never been a boxing champion; he was a street fighter, practically from the moment he vacated the cradle. He grabbed Graham’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “That’s enough o’ that, Mr. Donohue. Time ta be off home.”

Ireland made a grand show of straightening his hat and tidying his cuffs, trying to recover from the look of sheer terror that had crossed his face in the long second before Ray sailed across the countertop. But I’d seen it. We’d all seen it.

“Mrs. MacGillivray?” Graham looked at me. He didn’t move in Ray’s grip. “Am I expelled?”

As if I’d contradict my business partner in front of a room full of customers. “Yes, you are, Mr. Donohue. You may return tomorrow, once you have calmed down. And had a shave and a haircut and changed into clean clothes.”

Held firm in Ray’s grip, Graham still managed a stiff bow. “For you, the raven-haired beauty of the Klondike, I’ll even have a bath.”

How could I not smile?

The onlookers cheered lustily at Graham’s chivalrous words. They were a long way from home, all these men trying to be so tough. A great many of them had left cherished mothers, wives and children behind in the depression-plagued cities to the south. They were the most sentimental bunch I had ever encountered. Which sometimes made it difficult to wring every last copper or fleck of gold dust out of them.

Difficult, but not impossible.

Graham Donohue looked at Ray. “You can unhand me, sir. Mrs. MacGillivray has asked me to leave. I never refuse a lady.”

The crowd cheered. Someone shouted, “Come on, Fee, let the boy stay.” They took up the chant. “Let the boy stay!”

Ireland was forgotten, which he didn’t appear to be at all happy about. Judging by the way he looked at me, he, the righteous victim of an unprovoked attack, blamed me for the loss of the crowd’s attention.

Tough.

I jerked my head towards the door; once an order was given, it had to be upheld, no matter what. Ray and I had both served our time on the bottom of life’s ladder, the one with half the rungs kicked out. We knew better than to show a hint of weakness. Graham bowed, and although he was still held in Ray’s powerful grip, he managed to be as gracious as the great ship on which I’d left Southampton harbour, heading for the New World. Several men pounded him on the back as he passed.

Ireland swallowed his drink, elbowed the man beside him out of the way and went into the gambling room. His face resembled one of the thunderclouds that would hover over Toronto on a hot summer’s day.

“Close one,” I said to Ray, once he’d seen Graham out the door.

“What was all that about? Never seen Donohue fly off the handle like that before. Cool as they come, he usually is.” At least that’s what I think Ray said. His Glaswegian accent is so thick when he’s angry or confused or, on a very rare occasion emotional, that even I, born and raised on the Isle of Skye until the age of ten, can’t always understand him.

I shook my head: who knows what comes over men at times? The customers, disappointed that the fight had fizzled into nothing, went back to their drink.

All I’d have to do, I’d thought naïvely, was to keep Graham Donohue and Jack Ireland apart, and everything would be well.