Bad Business Page 5

  Clint leaned over, took a clear look at the man’s face, and determined that he’d never seen him before.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t know him.”

  “Anybody know this man?” Burns shouted to the crowd of onlookers.

  If anyone did, they did not speak up.

  “All right,” Hargrove said, “we’ll have to get him out of the street. I’m going into the Alhambra. I’m gonna get a room from them for us to use in questioning people. Just get us some witnesses to talk to. Somebody must have seen something.” Hargrove turned to Clint. “Adams, you come with me. I want to question you, first.”

  “Why?” Clint asked. “I told you, I got here after the fact.”

  “The fact that you’re here at all interests me,” Hargrove said. “I’m not going to take your gun or strong-arm you, but I’d like you to come with me . . . please.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “since you put it that way.”

  Hargrove turned to Burns and Logan and said, “I’ll see you men inside.”

  “Yes, sir,” Burns said.

  “Adams?”

  Inside the Alhambra, Hargrove got nothing but cooperation. Any gambling hall in San Francisco wants no trouble from the law, so pretty much any building he’d have gone into would have given him a room. Rather than a hotel room, though, the Alhambra gave him one of the back rooms that was used for private poker games. Eventually, he and Clint were seated at a green felt-covered table with cups of coffee in front of them.

  “What’s been happening to you since I last saw you?” Hargrove asked.

  “Not much,” Clint said. “I sent word to you that I was staying at the Diamond House.”

  “Yes, you did,” the lieutenant said, “and I appreciate that. Have you made any progress with the business that brought you to town?”

  “No.”

  “And this man?” Hargrove asked. “Would he have had anything to do with that?”

  “To tell you the truth, Lieutenant,” Clint said, “I don’t know. As I told you, I don’t know him, never saw him before, and certainly never spoke to him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The lieutenant gave Clint a dubious look, so he decided to try to change the subject.

  “What about your case?” Clint asked. “Any progress on who murdered that saloon owner?”

  “No, none,” Hargrove said. “I’ve got Burns and Logan working on it.”

  As if on cue both inspectors appeared at the door.

  “We’ve got a few witnesses out here, Lieutenant,” Burns said.

  “Good,” Hargrove said, “bring them in one at a time. That’ll be all, Adams. Thanks for the cooperation.”

  “Sure.”

  Clint got up and walked out. Just outside the door there was a line of about a half a dozen people, mostly men.

  Before leaving he turned to Burns.

  “What was the dead man’s name?”

  “We found a wallet on him,” Burns said. “Apparently belonged to a man named Walter Trench. Do you know that name?”

  Clint shook his head.

  “I never heard of him.”

  “Well, that’s who this was, unless he stole that wallet.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Logan chimed in. “We got lots of pickpockets working Portsmouth Square.”

  “A pickpocket would have more than one wallet on him,” Burns said.

  “Unless this was the first of the day for him,” Logan argued.

  Clint decided to leave the Alhambra and let the two inspectors argue the point without him. He’d never heard of the man, and that was all he cared about.

  He had another stop to make and now he was going to be late for that one, too.

  SEVENTEEN

  When Clint entered the House of Cards, the topic of discussion in the crowded hall was the dead man in the street. He listened to several conversations, but no one knew anything. They were just rehashing what everyone had seen or heard from the police.

  Clint went to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “Hey, you came back,” Wesley said.

  “Got an appointment with your boss.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  Wesley went off and came back with a full mug.

  “You don’t like Ellington very much, do you?” Clint asked.

  Wesley looked nervous. “Are you friends with him?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I told you this afternoon, friend of a friend. But to tell you the truth, I’m not seeing the same man my friend told me about.”

  The bartender leaned on the bar. There was a lot of conversation going on around them. He lowered his voice and Clint had to strain to hear.

  “He ain’t the same man who hired me,” Wesley said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I came walkin’ in here when the place was empty, wasn’t even open yet. He was excited, you know? Said this place was his dream. We talked about my experience and he hired me. I was the first person he hired. He said we were gonna build this place together.”

  “You were going to be his partner?”

  “No, that ain’t what he meant,” Wesley said. “He just meant when he hired the rest of his staff we’d all work together. And he said he’d be treatin’ everybody fair.”

  “And he hasn’t?”

  Wesley wet his lips. “He treats everybody like crap,” he said. “And he makes . . .”

  “Makes what?”

  “He makes the girls have sex with him, as part of their . . . job interview. If they do it, they get the job.”

  “And after they have the job?”

  “Well, if they wanna keep their job . . .”

  “I see.”

  “Which doesn’t mean he can’t help you with your problem,” Wesley said, “but . . .”

  “I should watch my back.”

  “Yeah,” the bartender said. “I mean, he’s gonna want somethin’ back, eventually.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “unfortunately, that does sound fair.”

  Wesley shrugged, leaned back. “You asked.”

  “Yes, I did,” Clint said. “Thanks for the answer, Wesley.”

  “Mr. Adams?”

  Clint turned and saw the young man named Kenny standing behind him.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Ellington says I should bring you to his office now.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “lead the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kenny said. “This way.”

  “Can I take my beer?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Kenny said, “Mr. Ellington said to bring him one.”

  “Wesley?” Clint called. “A beer for Mr. Ellington.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Ah, that’s what I’ve been waiting for,” Frank Ellington said as Clint and Kenny entered, Kenny carrying Ellington’s beer. “Put it on the desk and get out, Kenny.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kenny put the beer mug on the desk for his boss and quickly left. Clint sat in the chair he’d occupied earlier in the day.

  “A lot of activity on the street,” he said.

  “So I heard.” Ellington lifted his beer and drank half of it. “Ahhh! Well, I got that information you wanted.” He pushed a piece of paper over to Clint. “There are the addresses where you can find all those people.”

  “I was hoping for more than just addresses,” Clint said.

  “Like what?”

  “Impressions,” Clint said. “What you think of them. How likely you think they are to kill to get what they want.”

  “All that?”

  “All that.”

  Ellington sat back in his chair.

  “We can do that now. Fire away.”

  Clint wondered why they hadn’t just done this earlier, but he decided to let Ellington do it his way, as long as he got the information.

  Clint looked at the list. He had given Ellington six names representing five offers to buy. The list in front of him had four names on it, representing three off
ers.

  “Yes, you’ll notice two names missing,” Ellington said. “That’s because one of them is dead, and the other has left San Francisco.”

  “Recently?”

  “Very recently,” Ellington said, “which is probably why the lovely Lily didn’t even know about it.”

  “I’ll check in with her,” Clint said. “All right, what can you tell me about Adrian Webster?”

  “Came here five years ago from England. He now owns two hotel and gaming halls, neither of which is as near Portsmouth Square as the Diamond House.”

  “If he has two gaming halls, why does he want the Diamond House?” Clint asked. “It’s a hotel with no saloon or gambling.”

  “Yes, but the building is large enough to put in a saloon and gaming hall. The lovely Lily has no interest, so a lot of that space is going to waste.”

  “Does he represent any interests other than his own?” Clint asked.

  “Partners, you mean? No, Mr. Webster is an independent operator, much like myself.”

  “What about Peter Forrest?”

  “Now, he’s a different story. He does not own any properties himself other than the Lucky Lady Gambling Hall, and he does represent other interests. That’s his business. He brokers deals and takes a percentage. He does quite well for himself.”

  “Would either of these men kill for a deal?”

  Ellington laughed. “Either of those men would kill their mothers for a deal.”

  “I see. And these two? Lily told me these two men were partners?”

  “She’s partially right.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Harold and Chris Garvin are partners, all right,” Ellington said, “but Chris is a woman, not a man.”

  Clint frowned.

  “I don’t see Lily making that mistake.”

  “Unless,” Ellington said, “she only met the male half of the partnership.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Not only likely, but probable,” Ellington said. “Harold usually handles face-to-face meetings, while Chris handles the finances.”

  “And do they own any properties now?”

  “Several, all over town,” Ellington said, “including Portsmouth Square and the Barbary Coast.”

  “The Barbary Coast?”

  “Very profitable area,” Ellington said.

  “Yeah, if you’re involved with shanghaiing sailors,” Clint said.

  “That still goes on, sure, but there are hotels and gaming halls going up there. Believe me, it’s a gold mine. I’m trying to buy some property down there, myself.”

  “Hmm, things have changed while I’ve been away from San Francisco.”

  “Can I help you with anything else?” Ellington asked.

  “I think I’ve imposed on you enough, Mr. Ellington.”

  “That’s Frank to you, Clint,” Ellington said, as they both stood. “Remember that. And come back if you do think of something else I can do.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The two men shook hands and Clint left, taking his beer mug with him.

  NINETEEN

  Clint was in his room trying to read but not doing a very good job of it. He decided that, come morning, he’d send a telegram to William Pinkerton in Chicago and ask him if he knew a man named Walter Trench. If Trench wasn’t the man he was supposed to meet, then the right man had gotten lost in the crowd. If he wasn’t the man, then his death had coincidentally taken place in front of the Alhambra, where Clint was supposed to have his meeting and Clint still—after all these years—did not like coincidence.

  He was still trying to read the Dickens novel he’d recently started when there was a knock on the door. He put the book down, plucked his gun from his hanging holster, and walked to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “We were supposed to meet earlier,” a low, hoarse voice said.

  “Where?”

  “Front of the Alhambra.”

  He opened the door, holding his gun behind it, at the ready. He was surprised to see a woman standing in the hall.

  “Hurry. Let me in,” she said in a deep voice.

  Clint hesitated a second, but when the woman showed him her empty hands he opened the door wider and let her in.

  “Glad to see you’re careful,” she said, noticing the gun in his hand.

  “Were you there?” he asked. “In the crowd?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You got anything to drink?”

  “I have a small bottle of whiskey, in the top dresser drawer.”

  She rushed to the dresser, got the bottle, opened it, and took a deep drink. Her full lips glistened with whiskey until she wiped it away with the back of her hand. She was tall, wearing trail clothes that were too big for her—not too short, but too large for her slender frame.

  She put the bottle back in the dresser drawer, but left it open.

  “Did you know the dead man? Walter Trench?” Clint asked, holstering his gun. “Did he have anything to do with this?”

  “Walter,” she said, nodding, crossing her arms as if she were cold. “He was my partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “We’re both Pinkertons.”

  “Ah.”

  “He was supposed to meet you; I was supposed to cover your backs.”

  “What happened?”

  “That buckboard came out of nowhere,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it when it ran Walter down.” She was looking down as she spoke. Now she looked up at him. “Why were you late?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I . . . got held up earlier, it put me behind all day.”

  She turned, fished the bottle from the drawer, and took another drink, then set it on top of the dresser, this time.

  “So Walter Trench was going to tell me something about Allan Pinkerton’s death?”

  “What? No, Walter didn’t know anything. Neither did I. You were supposed to meet with someone when you first got here, weren’t you?”

  “I was, but he never showed up,” Clint said, “and I got involved with another killing.”

  “Who?”

  “A saloon owner named Eddie MacDonald. Do you know him?”

  “Heard of him, but I didn’t know him.”

  “Did your partner?”

  “I don’t think so. Was he the one who was going to tell you—”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I never got to talk to him.”

  “Well, if you never met with anybody, what have you been doin’?”

  “I sent your boss a telegram telling him I was moving to this hotel, and I left my new location at that Market Street hotel. If anyone wanted to find me, they could.”

  “And no one has?”

  “You and your partner,” Clint said. “And, by the way, why?”

  “We got a telegram from our boss telling us to check in with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. To find out what you were doin’, I guess,” she said, with a shrug. “It was Walter who read the telegram.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “No,” she said. “Walter was the senior operative.”

  “How long have you been a Pinkerton?”

  “Almost a year.”

  She reached for the whiskey again, but he crossed the room and plucked it from her hand.

  “That’s enough of that,” he said. He capped it and put it away. “You need to stay sober and alert.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I don’t know what to do. Walter was in charge.”

  “Well, Walter’s gone and now you’re in charge,” Clint said.

  She gave him a resentful look and he wondered if Walter Trench was more to her than the senior operative.

  “You’ve got to get yourself together,” Clint said. “From the way you’re dressed I assume you’re undercover.”

  “Well, I don’t dress like this normally,” she said.

  “So you have someplace to stay?”

  “A flophouse on the Barbary
Coast.”

  “I heard that was getting better.”

  “Not where we’re stayin’,” she said.

  “Okay, I suppose you better go back there,” he said. “Contact your boss in the morning for instructions.”

  “Should I talk to the police?” she asked. “Tell them who Walter was?”

  “Like I said, check with your boss.”

  “Well, aren’t you the senior operative now?” she asked.

  “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “It’s Kat,” she said. “Katherine Crawford, but everybody just calls me Kat.”

  “Kat, I’m not an operative. I don’t work for Pinkerton.”

  “Then what are you doin’ here?”

  “Asking myself the same question.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just doing William and Robert a favor.”

  “You know them?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And did you know their father?”

  “I knew Allan, yeah.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He was an annoying son of a bitch.”

  She looked surprised.

  “A brilliant man,” he added, “but an annoying son of a bitch.”

  TWENTY

  Clint got Kat to leave and go back to her hotel. She agreed she would send a telegram to William Pinkerton in the morning and would let Clint know what the reply was. They were going to meet near her hotel on the Barbary Coast.

  Meanwhile, Clint would leave himself available to still be contacted while at the same time working on Lily Kingsforth’s troubles.

  The next morning after breakfast Clint started on Lily’s problem. The first of the names he was going to talk to were Harold and Chris Garvin.

  Clint wanted to take a look at the Barbary Coast. It had been a while since he’d been there. He took a cab to a hotel that was owned by the Garvins. The Coast Hotel was nothing like the buildings in Portsmouth Square but it was far better than anything he’d ever seen on the Barbary Coast in past years.

  Clint entered the hotel lobby and walked to the front desk.

  “Yes, sir?” a nattily dressed young clerk asked.

  “I’m looking for Harold or Chris Garvin.”

  “The owners?”

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “They are the owners, aren’t they?”