The Bullwhip Breed (5 page)

“I mostly get into my office by nine o’clock,” smiled St. Andre, not bothering to mention the numberless occasions he had worked for eighteen to forty-eight hours at a stretch without going home, when involved in a difficult case.

“Shuckens,” Calamity gasped. “You city folks sure have an easy life.”

Then she thought of the girl lying back on the path and decided that not all city folks had an easy life.

However, Calamity had never been one to brood on or mope about the past. Knowing there to be no chance of nailing the Strangler’s hide to the wall that night she forced the memory of the dead girl from her mind and prepared to buckle down to helping her friends enjoy their first evening in New Orleans.

On leaving the Park, Calamity found herself on Latour Street, an area apparently given over almost entirely to entertainment Saloons, a theatre, a couple of cafés, billiard halls, a dancehall and gambling houses flanked a wide street, each giving out with its own blare of noise. In many ways the street made Calamity feel at home for the first time since reaching New Orleans. This was her part of town, tough, boisterous, rowdy, like the main drag of a trail end or mining city back in the West. Maybe the buildings looked a mite more permanent, being built of brownstone instead of adobe or timber, but the noises and sights reminded Calamity of the kind of places she knew and loved.

A couple of bouncers heaved a drunk from one saloon, sending him flying across the pavement to narrowly miss landing in one of the large horse-troughs that lined the street. Calamity ignored the drunk and studied the water-filled troughs.

“You sure have some thirsty hosses down here,” she remarked.

“Not really,” St. Andre answered. “We use them in case of fire. There’s the
Cheval D’Or
now.”

Coming to a halt before the largest, noisiest and most garish place on the street, Calamity looked it over with critical gaze. “Sure looks fancy. Say, are you coming in for a drink?”

“I have work to do,
cherie
,” the detective replied, taking her hand in his, carrying to it his lips and kissing it.

“First time anybody ever kissed my hand,” Calamity stated. “I sure hope that ain’t the only place you fellers kiss.”

“That,” St. Andre told her with a grin. “Is something you will have to wait to discover.
Au revoir, cherie.
”

“I don’t know what it means,” replied Calamity, “but the same to you, and many of them.”

With that Miss Martha Jane Canary turned and entered the
Cheval D’Or
.

CHAPTER FIVE

DESPITE its fancy-sounding name, the bar-room of the
Cheval D’Or
appeared to be little or no different from the kind of place Calamity had looked upon in a whole heap of top-grade saloons throughout the West—with one exception. A small but rowdy band played music at the left side of the room and instead of performing on the stage, the saloon’s show girls whirled and kicked their legs in the centre of the open space mostly left free for public dancing. The crowd lining the long bar, or seated at the various tables, lacked cowhands, buckskin-clad plainsmen, yet seemed to be little different from a Western saloon’s customers in class or social standing; except for the folk at a couple of the tables on a small raised section close to the band. From the expensive clothing of the people on the dais, the fact that a couple of waiters showered attention on them full-time, and that champagne appeared to be the popular tipple served, Calamity figured them to belong to the richer class, the women of the party included.

Out West the ‘good’ women only very rarely entered a saloon, and ladies of the upper classes more than most stayed out of the places of entertainment. However, in New Orleans, and other Eastern cities, the desire to see how the other half relaxed and played became fashionable and brought parties of socialites to better class saloons to do so. Or course the socialites did not wish for too close contact with the revelling
hoi polloi,
so the obliging saloon-owners—always eager to satisfy the whims of well-paying customers—erected little segregated areas, often with their own private entrances, on which those who had the right background, and could afford it, might sit in comfort and see the fun. From their little raised sanctums, the ladies looked down on the herd enjoying its pleasures, watched shows which they regarded as being thrillingly naughty, and left with a sense of having improved their knowledge of life.

After a tolerant glance at the champagne-sipping upper-crust, Calamity forgot them and scanned the room for her friends. Sure enough the boys sat right where she figured they would be, at a table slap-bang on the edge of the dance floor and from where they could have an uninterrupted view of all that went on. Big, burly, white-haired Dobe Killem, her boss; lean, dark and tough looking Tophet Tombes, who acted as scout for the outfit; Chan Sing, the Chinese cook whose lapse from grace first gave Calamity acceptance to the outfit, and the other boys sat at ease, or as near at ease as their shop-bought, city-style clothes allowed, drinking whisky, squiring half-a--dozen or so saloongiris and ogling the waving black-stockings and exposed white thighs of the dancers.

Calamity gave the dancing girls a casual glance as she walked across the room to join her friends. With one exception, the girls dancing looked nor performed no better than she had seen in Western saloons. Mind you, that exception danced a heap more fancy than Calamity could ever remember seeing anywhere. The exception was a girl Calamity’s size, with a slim, but shapely figure in an abbreviated white outfit that left her arms and legs bare and who wore—although Calamity did not know them as such—ballet slippers on her feet. Showing far greater grace, agility and style, the girl whirled, spun and kicked her well-muscled legs in a manner that made the others look heavy-footed as a bunch of miners at a hoe-down. Her red hair was taken back and pinned up at the rear in a severe fashion, and her rather pale but pretty face held an expression of rapture as if she enjoyed every minute of her dance.

A man, engrossed in watching the red-haired dancer’s gyrations on the points of her ballet slippers, felt Calamity bump into him as she crossed the room, glanced at her, turned back to observe the dancer, then swivelled his head hurriedly to Calamity’s departing figure. For a moment he stared after Calamity and rubbed his eyes. Deciding that he had better stop drinking, for he could not possibly have just seen a pretty girl dressed in men’s clothes pass him—although, if it came to a point, the feller who bumped into him sure walked fancy—the man emptied his glass and left the room.

“Hey, Calam gal!” whooped Dobe Killem, eyeing his protege. “Come and get sat down, gal. Damn it, where’ve you been to?”

Suspicion gleamed in the saloon-girls’ eyes as Calamity took the offered seat. Unlike the man Calamity bumped into, they knew for certain the newcomer was a woman and did not care for the idea of an outsider moving in on what showed signs of developing into a real humdinger of a party.

“They’re my brothers, all of ‘em,” Calamity remarked, reading the signs as if the other girls bore them painted on their bosoms. She reached for the drink Killem poured and went on in explanation. “My mother had a fast hoss.”

Then she grinned at the men of the outfit, wondering if any of them would have dared walk into a Western saloon dressed in those derby hats, white shirts, fancy neck-ties and town suits. Dared might not be the correct word, for those freight-hauling Sons feared nothing but their boss.

“Where’ve you been to, Calam gal?” asked Tophet Tombes, who looked about as at home in his new clothes as a skunk would in a church hall. “We waited, but you didn’t show.”

“I got lost,” admitted Calamity. “Then I ran into a young feller as needed some help from four jaspers who was walking all over his face.”

“Trust you!” said Killem dryly. “There’s time I reckon we should ought to call you ‘Trouble’, not Calamity,”

“Calamity!” giggled one of the girls. “That’s a funny name.”

“Likely,” answered Calamity, eyeing the girl with a warning Stare. “Only don’t push it, sister, or you’ll wind up with a set of ingrowing buck-teeth.”

Anger glowed in the other girl’s eyes as she glanced towards her friends for moral and actual support. Slapping a big hand on the table top, Kiliem glared around at the girls, his bland face filled with innocent-featured malevolence.

“Now hold it there, all of you!” he ordered. “Just listen good to me, ‘cause I don’t aim to say it twice. Calam here’s part of my outfit. You mean-mouth her and she’ll whup the whole boiling of you, which same’ll spoil all our evenings. So you be nice and friendly with her. You hear me?”

Within certain bounds the girls were taught to regard the customer as always being right. So far they had been treated royally by the free-spending freighters and did not wish to slaughter a goose which laid such frequent golden eggs. Several of their fellow workers eyed the party with calculating gaze and would not hesitate to move in should any of the men give a hint of displeasure. Anyway, that girl in pants did not look as if she aimed to give them any competition.

Although quite willing to take on the saloon-girls individually or as a bunch, Calamity felt no desire to spoil her friends’ evening so early on. Catching the attention of a passing waiter, she ordered drinks for the table and it was taken as a peace-offering by the other girls.

After a few more leg kicks, the dancers came to a halt in a bent forward posture that flipped up their skirts, exposed frilly-edged, short-legged panties to view and caused Killem to make a hurried grab which hauled one of the over-stimulated freighters back into his seat. With a bound, the red-haired solo performer sailed into the air and landed on the floor in a split which brought a gasp from Calamity. However, the girl bounced to her feet without any sign of injury, dropped a graceful curtsy in reply to the applause which rose high, and skipped off the dancing space, between the tables and out through a door at the side of the bar.

“Where at’s the gambling?” asked Calamity as the applause died down.

“Upstairs,” answered one of the girls, hoping Calamity would go, for she did not feel entirely happy at having the red-head at the table.

“Hah!” grunted Tombes. “You don’t want no gambling, Calam gal. It air plumb sinful—and awful chancy too.”

Listening to Tombes’ sombre tones, Calamity might have taken the warning seriously had she not known him so well. On the way down river a well-dressed stranger inveigled Tombes and Killern into a game of poker. While neither gave any sign of their wisdom, both possessed a very thorough knowledge of all branches of the gambling business. On the fourth deal Killem objected to the dealer extracting for the improvement of a hand the seven of clubs from the bottom of the deck. Killem was ‘dressed’ at the time, and possessed a fair amount of skill in the speedy production of a weapon—leaning to his sheathed bowie knife on that occasion—and so was in a good position to make his point. A series of gambling scandals had recently rocked the Mississippi, causing the riverboat captains to be less tolerant of crooked gamblers than had formerly been the case. So the errant well-dressed stranger found himself penniless and standing on a sand bar, leaving Killem’s outfit to share out eighteen hundred dollars of his money. In addition to their pay from a freighting trip to Fort Sherrard in the Dakota Territory, an advance of wages and expense money donated by the Army, the gambler’s contribution ensured that the Killem bunch were well fixed to enjoy their visit to New Orleans.

Calamity decided to forego her investigation of the
Cheval D’Or’s
games of chance and sat back in her chair to see how the saloon compared with a Western place in the matter of entertainment. After a brief rest, the band struck up with a lively tune and the saloon-girls led most of the men out on to the open space. Never one for dancing, except when toting more ‘Old Whipping Pust’ whisky than at present, Tombes remained at the table with calamity. Taking her opportunity, Calamity told the leathery-faced scout of the incident in the Park, also about the suggestion she made utilising his knowledge of the ancient and honourable art of reading sign Western style.

“We’ll take usa look whether he likes it or not, comes morning,” Tombes stated when Calamity remarked that the final decision must come from one Lieutenant Caiman who she had not yet met. “Damn it, gal, I’d sure like to lay hands on that there Strangler.”

“And me,” Calamity answered, then her eyes swung from Tombes to gaze across the room with all the intent eagerness of a starving Cheyenne seeing a herd of prime Great Plains buffalo. “Say, who’s that big gal there?”

Following the direction of Calamity’s gaze and jerked thumb, Tombes studied the woman who so aroused his companion’s interest. Big was no exaggeration when describing the woman. She stood nearly six foot tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds. Blonde hair piled high on the woman’s head and her fat, jovial face carried stage make-up. Expensive-looking jewellery glinted around her neck, wrists and fingers and she wore a trailing, stylish, though tight-fitting blue dress.

“That’s Madam Darcel, gal, the owner,” Tombes explained and gave a warning for he knew Calamity. “And you forget it. She’d call the great siezer in and have you jailed happen you tried to start a brawl with her.”

A grin creased Calamity’s face at Tornbes’ insight of her character. “She’d be a mite too heavy anyways.”

“Likely,” the scout replied. “Just look at ole Dobe dance.”

“He’s about as graceful as a salmon-fed grizzly just afore winter,” the girl answered. “Happen that black-haired gal ain’t lively on her feet, she’ll sure wind up with tired toes comes the end of the dance.”

Although Killem’s partner limped slightly as she returned, to the table, her face held a smile. A saloon-girl learned to look happy under most conditions, even after having her toes stepped on by a partner who stood six foot two and carried a fair amount of weight. A round of drinks, bought this time by Chan Sing, who had a plump, dark-haired girl hanging to his arm, made Killem’s partner feel happier.

For a time the party went on, drinks flowed, jokes bounced around the table and most of the girls appeared to be overlooking Calamity’s sex, regarding her more as a paying customer rather than a rival.

Turning to the girl at her side, Calamity asked, “Hey, where’a a gal go, happen she wants to go?”

“Huh?” asked the puzzled saloon-girl, then the light glowed. “Oh! I’ll show you where we go.”

Watching Calamity and the saloon-girl walk away from the table, Killem thought over what Calamity had told him about her rescue of St. Andre. A grin came to the big freighter’s face. Dang that Calamity, never happy unless she was mixed up in some fuss or ruckus; but life would sure be dull without her around.

The dark-haired girl seated on Chan Sing’s knee had only recently come to work at the
Cheval D’Or
after being employed in a rather lower-class establishment further along Latour Street. In her previous post, the management expected her to augment her salary by collecting donations from the customers—without their being aware, of the removal of their wealth—and reckoned the same rule applied at the
Cheval D’Or
. Deciding the Chinaman would offer her the best possibilities, she latched on to him and had been on the point of extracting his wallet when Calamity arrived. Since then, the girl had not found an opportunity to take the wallet, for Calamity had none of the distractions offered to her male friends. Naturally when augmenting her salary without the owner of the wallet’s permission, one required privacy. So the girl left Chang Sing’s wallet where it rightfully belonged. When Calamity left, the girl thought she might find a chance. Seconds ticked by with nothing to take the attention of the other occupants of the table. Then a couple of jugglers made their appearance and the men gave the performers their attention.

Still keeping one arm around Sing’s neck, the girl slipped her other hand into his jacket and slid out the wallet. Being skilled at her trade, Sing did not feel his loss and the girl believed her action went unnoticed. So it did among the occupants of the table—however, somebody had seen the move, a person well capable of dealing with the matter.

The dark-haired girl’s first warning that things had gone wrong came as she prepared to slip the wallet into the front of her dress. Suddenly a strong hand dug fingers deep into her hair, twisted hard, and hauled her from Sing’s knee.

With a screech of pain, the girl twisted around, though still held by the hair, and faced her assailant. The wallet fell from the girl’s fingers as she prepared to defend herself against Calamity who, having seen the attempted theft, came to the rescue of her unsuspecting friend. Before the girl could make a hostile move, Calamity swung her hand in a slap which caught the other across the cheek. Showing superb timing, Calamity released the girI’s hair and the force of the slap sent the pickpocket staggering ,ackwards. After taking several steps to the rear, the girl tripped nd landed hard, rump-first on the floor at the centre of the open area.