The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries) Page 5

  Granville let the silence stretch out. From behind him came a muted buzz of voices and activity. The flickering of the oil lamps cast grotesque shadows on the warped boards. Electric lighting was probably too costly for this end of town, but he’d have thought Blayney would be more concerned about the possibility of fire. The place was piled with boxes and crates, and the building was made of wood, roughly constructed, and old. What were they storing here, anyhow?

  Blayney’s nervous laughter snapped Granville’s attention back to him.

  “You’re slipping,” he said with an attempt at heartiness that rang hollow in Granville’s ears. “I’ve never been able to fool you before. As if I’d really shoot such an old chum.”

  “Untie them,” Blayney said to the thugs. Then to Granville, “Now, what can I tell you about Scott?”

  Unsure what had caused Blayney to release them, Granville shrugged, which relieved the ache that had been building up in his shoulders. He let his now-unbound hands fall to his sides.

  “Anything you know about Scott’s business or acquaintances in town,” he said, ignoring the fierce pain as the blood slowly began returning to his hands and feet.

  “You know Scott was in with Jackson, of course.” A pause.

  “Of course,” Granville said, then added offhandedly, “What I don’t know is why.”

  Blayney shrugged. “Money, probably. You’d have to ask him.”

  “Go on.”

  “When Scott first arrived, he picked up work here and there, then got himself hired by Turner at the CPR.”

  “All common knowledge, Blayney. I thought if anyone knew the real story, it would be you.”

  The flattery worked. Blayney preened. He moved several steps closer, lowering his voice until Granville had to strain to hear. “Scott was seeing a woman, some cheap fan dancer from what I hear. She works out of a club on Columbia.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Franny, Fanny, something like that.”

  Suddenly that handbill he’d filched from the dead man’s pocket took on new meaning. Could Scott be protecting a woman? It would explain much.

  “And what about any enemies Scott might have made?”

  For a fleeting instant malice was stamped on Blayney’s face, then he smirked. “From what I hear, the recently deceased Jackson was none too pleased with your partner.”

  “But why?”

  “Scott was Benton’s man.”

  There it was again, but did that mean it was true? “So? So was Jackson.”

  “Well, let’s just say Jackson had been Benton’s man.”

  “Had been?”

  “Rumor has it that Jackson was going to set up on his own.”

  “Then why is Scott in jail and not Benton?” Granville demanded.

  Blayney gave him a pitying look.

  He’d had enough of this nonsense. Granville stood up, keeping his expression casual but watching Blayney’s reaction closely. “Thanks for the information. Come on, Trent.”

  Turning, Granville walked toward the door, the boy following. Blayney stood irresolute, watching them go. As they reached the relative safety of the street, Granville drew a relieved breath. It was raining lightly. He turned up his collar and strode briskly down Water Street, Trent keeping step beside him.

  “That was great, Granville,” Trent burst out. “I didn’t think we were going to get out of that one, but you played him like an old trout.”

  Granville rolled his eyes skyward.

  “His information’s out of date, though, don’t you think?” Trent continued.

  “Out of date? What do you mean?”

  “Benton and Jackson were tight again.”

  “What?”

  “Yup. Way I heard it, Benton hired Jackson as manager for his lumber mill. Gave him part ownership and everything.”

  Now that was interesting. What motive could lie behind that? “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “I figured you’d already know.”

  Granville gave him a sharp look. Perhaps you did, and perhaps not, he thought. “Then why didn’t Blayney know?”

  “I don’t think Jackson much liked him. And Mr. Blayney isn’t any too bright, is he?”

  “But then . . .” Granville began, when a movement in a thick patch of shadow ahead of them alerted him. He stopped and yanked Trent behind him with one hand, the other going to his knife. The boy stayed quiet, seemingly listening as intently as Granville was. For a long, long moment, there was no sound beyond the steady patter of the rain.

  Then there was a sudden outburst of motion in the darkness, a loud yowling, and a small cat streaked across their path, followed immediately by a larger one.

  This whole business had him jumping at shadows. Behind him, Trent had started breathing again.

  “If Jackson didn’t like Blayney, why did he have you run errands for him?” Granville could think of a number of reasons, but he wanted to know what the kid knew.

  Trent shook his head. “Dunno,” he said. “Where we goin’ now?”

  “I’m going to see a show and you’re going home.”

  “Can’t I come?”

  “No.”

  “How are you going to stop me? I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  At that age, Granville had thought himself invincible, too. “Come on then,” he said, still unsure why this boy was so determined to tag along. Curiosity? The chance for adventure? Or was it something more?

  S E V E N

  The main room at the Carlton was loud and smoky. At the far end, a voluptuous blonde was shimmying on a small stage, wearing nothing but sheer scarves and a few strategically placed feathers. Granville glanced at Trent, standing beside him. He was oblivious, all his attention focused on the dancer.

  “Ever see a burlesque dancer before, Trent?”

  Trent didn’t take his eyes off the stage. “No sir.”

  Granville let his gaze rove around the packed bar. Most of the patrons wore expressions almost identical to Trent’s. So where was this Franny from Frisco? Grabbing Trent’s elbow, Granville maneuvered them both over to the bar, with Trent nearly tripping twice because he never took his eyes off the stage.

  “One whiskey, one soda.”

  The bartender set up the glasses.

  “I’ve been seeing posters for Franny.”

  The huge bartender grinned, showing two missing front teeth. Judging by the muscles rippling in his arms and upper torso, Granville was willing to bet the man had won more fights than he’d lost.

  “You and half the town,” the bartender said as he handed over the whiskey. “She’s our biggest draw.”

  “So when is she on?”

  “Right after Annette over there,” he said, gesturing at the blonde, who was slowly molting feathers.

  “Thanks.” Granville handed the soda to Trent and began to work his way to the edge of the stage. Trent followed.

  With a final thrust of her hip, the last feather fluttered to the stage. Amid wolf whistles and applause that seemed to shake the flimsy walls, Annette gave a wink and a wave and disappeared backstage.

  The whistling and applause died away and there was a long silence. Granville looked around him in surprise. Usually in a place like this the noise would continue until the next dancer appeared, growing louder if she took too long. Instead, the silence seemed to deepen, until finally it was broken by a drumroll. Another silence, another drumroll. Now a long, shapely pair of legs encased in black net stockings glided into the spotlight, topped by a huge feather fan.

  Granville joined in the thunder of applause that broke out. It seemed that Franny—if this was indeed she—had a real sense of showmanship. She wasn’t afraid of her audience, either, he thought, as legs and fan came to a complete stop.

  Slowly the noise died away, then came the sinuous wail of a lone clarinet, followed first by a trumpet, then by the drums. The fan began to sway backward and forward, still revealing nothing except those spellbinding legs.

&nb
sp; Now the chant began, swelling until it filled the building. “Fran-ny! Fran-ny!” The stomping of booted feet shook the floor so violently that Granville found himself hoping the building was sound. Then, at last, Franny began to dance.

  Still only those legs and the fan were visible, but the legs were kicking, higher and higher with every hollered “Fran-ny!” It was enthralling. It was also highly arousing. Granville ran a hand under his collar and reminded himself forcefully that he was here to help his partner.

  He glanced over at Trent, whose eyes were huge in a pale face. Granville sighed. He’d known it was a mistake to bring him, but everyone had to grow up sometime. At least this was nothing like the brothel William had dragged him to when he turned fourteen, Granville thought, shuddering at the memory of painted faces, groping hands, and jeering laughter. “Fourteen, is he? Ooh, he’s a cute one, he is. C’mon, lad, let’s see what you’re made of.” The voices cawed in his head, and he thrust them away; it was an occasion he preferred not to remember.

  An increase in the noise level focused his attention back on the stage. The fan had begun to dip lower, revealing dark brown hair with glints of red where the light caught it. The spotlight dimmed and the other lights began to come up very, very slowly. The din around him intensified as the woman herself began to appear, inch by inch. “Fran-ny! Fran-ny!”

  A pair of strongly marked brows appeared, set in a broad white forehead, then eyes that flashed in the dim light. Strong cheekbones and a nose with a hint of a tilt were next, then full, sensuous lips, pouting slightly, and a chin that was perhaps a shade too sharp, all set on a long, graceful neck. In any setting, it was a face you would not soon forget. In this place, Franny from Frisco had the kind of beauty that seemed to dare and challenge every man there.

  And they were responding. The cheers, whistles, and foot-stomping increased. And all she was showing was her face and her legs, thought Granville in amazement. What was next?

  Her face disappeared behind her fan again, and the spectators went abruptly silent. The ensuing quiet seemed to echo off the thin walls. Then a clarinet wailed out, the lighting on the stage brightened, the drum began to throb, and a trumpet to moan. The fan swayed in rhythm, from side to side, allowing a glimpse of arm here, a flash of bosom there. Behind her fan, Franny seemed to be clad in something that glistened and shimmered where it caught the light.

  Suddenly the trumpet blared. The fan snapped shut. Franny from Frisco, revealed at last in a short golden costume that covered her from neck to thigh, began to gyrate, and her audience roared approval.

  Granville tore his gaze from those shapely hips and studied her face. She looked lost in the music as she danced, but there was a hint of a smile curving the corners of her red, red mouth, and a definite gleam in the down-swept eyes. She was playing with them, and loving every minute of it. He studied the enthralled men around him; they knew it, and loved her for it.

  She sat in a deep armchair in her small dressing room, the air sweet with powder and scent. “Call me Frances,” she said in a clear voice, accompanied by an enigmatic smile.

  “I’m Trent.”

  His voice was as eager as his expression as he rushed forward to shake her hand. Granville hid a smile as he stretched his own hand out to take hers. Scott’s name had gotten them access backstage without even a question. Which was apparently not usual; Franny from Frisco saw no one after her show. It made him even more curious to see how she would react to his own name.

  “John Lansdowne Granville. Scott calls me Granville,” he said, watching her.

  Frances’s grip was firm, her hand, lingering in his, long and shapely. The glint of laughter in her eyes was a challenge.

  “Sam’s told me about you,” was all she said.

  “You know where he is?”

  She nodded.

  He eyed her up and down, wondering where she fit into the picture. She was even more attractive seen up close than she’d been onstage. Clad now in a floor-length dressing gown of red brocade, with her wavy hair loose about her shoulders, she radiated sensual appeal, yet her face gave nothing away.

  As he looked her over, Frances’s expression froze and her eyes lost their laugh. Fleetingly she reminded him of his paternal grandmother, a woman capable of delivering a very sharp put-down. “I assume you’re here for a reason?”

  Granville almost laughed at his own sudden discomfort. He knew he had been rude, and he felt like a small boy who has been reprimanded. “I want to get Scott out of jail.”

  “And just how do you plan to accomplish that?”

  “With your help.” It was worth a try, though, judging by her present expression, she wouldn’t help Granville to a glass of water if he were dying of thirst. He should have been less obvious in his studied appraisal of her.

  “How?”

  The single word was a cold as a February morning on the Klondike River. Either she was mortally offended, or she was a hell of an actress. He was betting on the latter, though he wondered why she’d bother. She was a burlesque dancer; she must be used to the frank stares she got from men.

  “I need to know more about the relationship between Scott and Jackson, and why everyone here seems so quick to jump to the conclusion that Scott murdered Jackson.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are going to hang him.” Granville bit out the words, glaring at her. It was one in the morning and he was exhausted and no closer to helping Scott than he’d been when he set out. He needed answers and he was sick of playing games.

  The minute the words were out of his mouth he was wishing he could call them back. He knew better. This was the wrong place and she was the wrong woman to be losing his temper with.

  “But why did you come to me?” Her expression remained chilly.

  “I was told you and Scott knew each other.”

  “I know many people.”

  “Listen to me. Scott has ten days left before he faces trial. Now, do you want to help Scott or don’t you?”

  Frances put her head to one side, as if considering him and his question. After a long moment she said, “Jackson was threatening me. Sam didn’t like it.”

  “Threatening you with what?”

  “Threatening to blacken my name with Benton. He owns this place.”

  Somehow he didn’t think that was the whole story, but he’d let it pass, for now. “And what exactly is Scott to you?” he asked, anticipating the answer. She surprised him.

  “Sam’s my brother.”

  For a moment Granville was too stunned to ask another question. No wonder she’d taken offense at his behavior. That was not how he would have treated Scott’s sister—if he’d ever known he had one. That idiot, keeping secrets like this from him. How was he ever going to keep the noose from around Scott’s neck if he didn’t have the most basic facts at his disposal?

  “I’m his younger sister,” she explained, her voice softening somewhat. “From Denver, by way of San Francisco.”

  “So why did you come to Vancouver?” Trent broke in.

  It was a good question. Granville waited to see if she’d answer.

  She gave a tiny shrug. “It was time to move on.”

  Interesting, Granville thought.

  “So you came here because your brother was here?” Trent persisted.

  Frances paused before replying. “No, Sam was in the Yukon when I got here. I liked the sound of Vancouver, and someone I knew offered me a job.”

  “Anyone I know?” Granville asked.

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “So here I am,” she finished.

  “Who met Jackson first, you or Scott?”

  Frances gave him a cool look. “I did, when I got a job dancing here. Benton used to have Jackson oversee the place.”

  “Used to?”

  A tiny smile lifted her lips, then was gone. “They had a difference of opinion about how it should be run.”

  Granville wondered exactly what her role had been in that disagreement. “Can
you tell me what was between Scott and Jackson?” he shot at her.

  An odd expression crossed her face, but disappeared too quickly for Granville to interpret. “You’ll have to ask Sam that.”

  “I tried. He just told me that he owed Jackson money.”

  “If Sam won’t tell you, then I can’t.”

  “Do you want to see your brother hang?” Granville asked, hoping to shock her. She surprised him again. Was that pity in her eyes as she looked at him?

  “Sam’s choices are his alone. I can’t make them for him, and I can’t save him from them.”

  Granville shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Didn’t she care if her brother hanged? Or was Scott’s family as crazy as his own? “Who is he protecting?”

  “That’s for Sam to tell you. Or not.”

  At least Frances hadn’t denied that Scott was protecting someone. But from the sound of it, it wasn’t her.

  E I G H T

  Saturday, December 9, 1899

  Granville woke the next morning with the dry taste of failure in his mouth. He wasn’t happy to realize that the lump of discarded clothing against the cheap wardrobe was actually Trent, bedded down under a couple of thin blankets. The cheap hotel room he rented by the week had barely enough space for one person.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

  Granville scowled at his unexpected sleeping companion. “Why are you here?” He sat up and swung his legs off the bed in one motion, glaring at the kid as he did so.

  “You said I should stay,” Trent reminded him. “That it wasn’t safe to head home on my own.” He paused, rubbed the end of his nose.

  It was coming back to him, all of it. Granville pulled his trousers on and strode to the window, narrowing his eyes to slits as he pulled back the shutter. By the look of things, it was late, and his pocket watch confirmed that it was nearly ten. But then, it had been nearly four when they got home, after he’d hit practically every bar between the warehouse and the docks, hoping to turn up any useful snippet of information. And his head hurt. “I need coffee,” he said. “Come on, kid.”