Black Dove (8 page)

“Poor Dr. Chan,” Diana said when I was through telling the tale. “But how fortunate for him, too. To have run into you two, I mean.”

“I suppose so,” I said, though truthfully I was in no position to do any such supposing—because I had no idea what she meant.

“Whatever his troubles may be,” Diana went on, “they’re surely no match for us.”

“ ‘Us’?” Old Red said.

Diana nodded. “You and me and your brother.
Us
. Three unemployed detectives with a friend in need.”

Gustav peeked up at the lady warily, his head cocked slightly to one side. “And you think we oughta be friends in deed how, exactly?”

“By learning why Dr. Chan’s in fear for his life, of course. And then . . .” She shrugged and took another quick sip of brandy. “. . . doing something about it.”

My brother looked over at me. “Some folks’d say it’s none of our business.”

Diana turned to me, too. “Well, then I would quote the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes to these ‘folks’: ‘It’s everyone’s business to see justice done.’ ”

“ ‘Every
man’s
business’ is what He said,” Old Red harrumphed. “Which still makes it your business by duty,” Diana said. “I make it mine by choice.”

“That settles it, then,” I announced, hoping by saying it I was making it so. If Diana wanted to jump into the Bay and do the backstroke back to
Frisco, I wasn’t going to talk her out of it—so long as I was invited to take the dip with her. “To seein’ justice done.”

I held my brandy out over the table.

“To seeing justice done,” Diana echoed, bringing her glass up against mine.

After a pause of approximately two centuries—or so it seemed to me—Gustav raised his glass, too. He raised his gaze, as well, finally looking at Diana full-on, with no bowed head or blushes.

“To findin’ the truth,” he said.

And he knocked his drink into ours hard enough to push them apart.

Or, We Head to Chinatown by Way of Hell

After another round of
brandies (and a long stretch of sullen silence from my brother), Diana called it a day. Or called it a dusk, more like, since sundown was setting in by the time we said our farewells.

It wouldn’t be good-bye for long this time, though. We planned to meet again the very next morning at the Ferry House in San Francisco. From there, we would proceed to Chinatown, where we would pour our help down Chan’s throat like he was a sick boy who wouldn’t take his castor oil. There would be no “no.”

Gustav had agreed to this plan with no more than the occasional grunt or, when pressed, curt nod. So once Diana was in a hansom clip-clopping off down Broadway, I asked if I should hail a hack for him, too.

“Why the hell would you do that?” Old Red said.

“I just figured you wouldn’t be able to walk yourself back to the hotel,” I told him. “You know, what with that giant stick up your ass and all.”

“Better a stick than my own head.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, can’t you tell when you’re bein’ used?”

I gazed at Diana’s departing cab and sighed wistfully. “A lady like that can use me any ol’ way she pleases.”

My brother responded with a phrase so foul I wouldn’t dare set my pen to writing it lest the paper burst into sulphurous flame. A rough paraphrasing would be, “Oh, you silly man, you.”

“Hey, you just tell me this then,” I shot back. “If Diana’s usin’ us, what the heck’s she usin’
us for
?”

Old Red kicked at a nonexistent rock on the sidewalk. “I don’t know. It just don’t sit right, though. First she’s tryin’ to give us the heebie-jeebies about the S.P., then she’s pushin’ us back to Chinatown to see Chan again. I look at her, and . . . well, I can’t help but remember what The Man said.”

“ ‘Stop bein’ so cantankerous, you little coot’?” I suggested. “Oh, wait. That was
me
said that.”

“ ‘Women are naturally secretive,’ ” Gustav growled, quoting from “A Scandal in Bohemia.”

“Well, with all due respect to you and The Man . . . that’s horseshit. You may as well say all apples got worms or every bear can ride a bicycle. It just ain’t so.”

My brother gave me the kind of fierce, deeply lined scowl you usually only see carved into totem poles.

“Look,” I said, “even if Diana
is
keepin’ secrets, then you oughta be happy as a damn clarn—cuz now you got yet another puzzle to play with. And I’ll tell you how to solve this one, too:
Coax
some answers out of the lady. Be pleasant. Sly. Smooth. You know . . . not an asshole.”

“Try to sweet-talk her, you mean?”

“Oh, hell no!” I hooted. “Leave that to me. All you gotta do is be civil—which I know poses quite the challenge for you, but I think you can pull it off if you truly try. Sooner or later, Diana’ll let down her guard, and then you’ll get your chance to find out what she’s
really
up to.”

“Oh, now you’re just humorin’ me.”

“Absolutely. But that don’t mean I ain’t right.”

“Yeah,” Old Red sighed. “Could be.”

“Alright, then. That’s that.” I clapped my hands together and gave them an eager rub. “Now if you care to accompany me, I have a few errands to run ’fore we head back to the Cosmo for the night.”

“What sorta errands?”

“Well, first, I gotta get me a new hat.” I took off my ruined derby and ran my fingers over the bristly tuft of hair atop my head. “Then I wanna see if there’s a barber can do something with this barbecued fore-lock of mine. Might just get myself a shave while I’m at it. And I do believe it’s about time I took myself a hot bath. Could probably use me some new cologne to cover up the smell of Doc Chan’s liniment, too . . . .”

“Brother,” Gustav said, shaking his head, “what you
really
need they don’t sell in stores.”

With that, he trudged off toward our hotel, leaving me to dandify myself alone. When I returned to our room a few hours later, as slicked up as an otter’s ass, I found him asleep on the bed, the newest issue of
Harper’s
steepled on his stomach. The magazine featured a new tale from Johnny Watson, “The Resident Patient,” and Gustav had drifted off while studying on the illustrations. Apparently, my brother found a mere drawing of Sherlock Holmes to be more inviting company than his own flesh-and-blood brother.

I didn’t mind, though. Old Red’s hell to duds-shop with—he considers anything fancier than denim work-pants and a checked shirt foppish. And as for hats, nothing but a white Boss of the Plains will do.

But me, I’m more a when-in-Rome sort of fellow. And when in Frisco, men trade in ten-gallon hats for something more on the order of two quarts. Which is why I’d decided to buy my first boater.

When I woke up the next morning, I found my brother holding the flat, disc-ish hat gingerly, balancing it on the tips of his fingers as if it had been woven from poison ivy instead of straw. He was fully dressed, and he had the alert, up-and-at-’em bearing of a man who’s had his morning coffee.

“I reckon I oughta congratulate you,” he said when he noticed my opened eyes.

“Yeah?” I whispered hoarsely. Before I’ve had
my
first cup of Ar-buckle, that’s about as articulate as I get.

“Yeah. I didn’t think you could find a lid that’d make you look more nitwitted than that of bowler did. But you managed it somehow.” He put the straw hat back atop our bureau, where I’d left it the night before, then
grabbed his Stetson and plopped it on his head. “Anyways . . . come on. Gotta get a move on or we’ll miss our ferry.”

“Alright, alright. And here I thought
I’d
be the one draggin’
you
off to—” I pushed myself up to a sit and gave the air a quizzical sniff. “Whoa. Did I spill my . . . ? Oh. Ho ho ho.”

“What’s there to ‘ho’ about?”

“You, as a matter of fact. You threw on a splash of my cologne, didn’t you?” I leaned toward him, squinting up at a scrape on his cheek due east of his mustache—which was as neatly trimmed as I’d ever seen it. “And I do believe you’re freshly shaved. Hmmm. Spit-shined your boots, too, I see. Well well well, how ’bout that? So you decided to ladle on a little charm, after all.”

“I ain’t aimin’ to charm nobody.”

“Oh, please, Brother. It’s plain as day. The only thing missing’s a pink carnation in your lapel . . . which we can buy on the way to the ferry, if you like.”

“Now, hold on. It’s not that I . . . well . . . a man can’t . . . you know . . .”

Old Red snatched up my trousers and threw them into my face.

“Shut up and get yourself dressed, would you?”

Thirty minutes later, we were on our way across the Bay on the nine o’clock ferry. There wasn’t much chop to the waves that morning, yet my brother’s face quickly went so sweaty and pale you might’ve thought we were on a raft riding out a typhoon. I helped him keep his spirits up and his gorge down with yet another rereading of “The Resident Patient.”

Old Red regained his color, if not his composure, when we got off the boat. As promised, Diana was waiting for us outside the Ferry House, and the mere sight of her brought a blush to his cheeks and a knot to his tongue.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said as we walked up.

“Good mornin’ to you, madame,” I replied, tipping my hat with a jaunty flip of the wrist. “If I may say so, you are lookin’ truly radiant this morning.”

Gustav forewent the flattery, merely brushing a finger over his hat brim and mumbling something that sounded like, “Gmornuh.”

“Good morning. And thank you, Otto.” Diana looked up at the scorch-mark on my forehead, which had lost most of its scarlet glow. “You’re looking rather
less
radiant, actually—for which I’m sure you’re grateful.”

“Very. I don’t know what Doc Chan put in that glop of his, but it sure helped me heal up in a hurry. Good thing, too.” I flicked the rim of my boater. “These here straw hats may be all the rage, but it feels like I’m wearin’ a wicker basket on my head. Like to rub my head raw if that burn was still botherin’ me. But I reckon a little discomfort’s the price one must sometimes pay for dressin’
à la mode
, am I right?”

Old Red gave his eyes such a roll he probably got a good look at his own brain.

“Why, Otto—I had no idea you were interested in fashion,” Diana said.

“Oh, there’s more to read in
Harper’s
than detective yarns, y’ know.”

“Well, I applaud you for expanding your horizons. And what’s more—” The lady looked up at my straw hat and nodded. “I like it. It makes you look very . . . modern.”

“I’m mighty pleased to hear you say that, miss. Cuz some of your less-sophisticated, stick-in-the-mud types ain’t got no appreciation for ‘modern’ finery.”

I waggled my eyebrows at my brother.

“I got better things to think about than
hats
just now,” he growled. “Of course,” Diana said. “We can catch a streetcar to Chinatown over this way.”

She started toward East Street.

My brother and I didn’t follow her.

“Uhhh,” I said.

Diana stopped. “Gentlemen?” Her gaze slid over to Gustav. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I forgot about your . . . condition. We can walk to Chinatown.”

“My ‘condition’?” Old Red rumbled, momentarily managing to meet Diana’s eyes with a here-and-gone, peek-a-boo glance. “I ain’t got no ‘condition.’ I just don’t like ridin’ nothin’ that ain’t got reins I can hold in my own hands. But I’ll be god . . .” He spluttered to a stop, gave his head a bitter shake, then started again. “I’ll be
goll durned
if I’m gonna make a woman walk a dozen blocks out of her way. Come on.”

He marched away toward the street.

Before Diana and I hustled off after him, I noticed the lady’s lips slip to one side into a smirk. It was as if my brother had just passed some secret test she’d set for him—or failed it, perhaps.

One cable car after another went trundling away down Market, and if we’d taken one it would’ve been simplicity itself to hop off at Dupont and shoot north up to Chinatown. But Diana insisted on another route: straight over from East Street on Clay. It was a heck of a lot more direct, and a hell of a lot more scenic—the “scenery” consisting of the unbridled debauchery of the Barbary Coast.

The first time I’d walked through the Coast, I’d heard a conductor shout, “All out for the whorehouse!” as his streetcar slowed to a stop before a particularly grandiose bagnio. Everyone aboard had hooted and guffawed—for they were all men. Diana’s presence put the kibosh on any such antics now, however, and all but the most brazen sports who hopped on and off our car did their best to keep their backs to her.

For her part, Diana didn’t gaze upon the Coast’s drunken sailors, dive saloons, melodeons, macks, and prostitutes with anything that looked like disgust or even curiosity. She remained so unruffled by the iniquity around us, in fact, that her very indifference began to feel like another test. Back on the Pacific Express, before we knew she was an S.P. spy, we’d gone out of our way to shield her from every sight or situation we deemed too frightful for a female. Would we try to play white knight now?

Old Red was certainly white enough for it . . . as in “white as a sheet.” He was clinging to the nearest railing so tight it’s a wonder the brass didn’t break off in his grip. He was in no shape to stand up for propriety, for he hardly seemed capable of standing up at all.