The Dublin Detective (2 page)

McBeth showed his two fingers, pulled his jacket aside, and drew the gun out that way, then dropped it to the ground.

“Kick it into the water.”

Damn! He'd been hoping he could just kick it away and then maybe be able to pick it up during the fight. Once it was in the water, it was lost to him for good.

“Go on, boyo,” the man said. “Kick it.”

McBeth had no choice. He kicked the gun. It skittered across the dock and splashed into the water.

The man with the gun stepped back and said, “All right, lads. Do it.”

More bad news. McBeth had been hoping the man would put his gun away and draw a knife. Instead, he was going to stand back and watch the other three kill him. And if, somehow, McBeth gained the upper hand, the gunman would probably just shoot him after all.

It looked bad for McBeth either way.

The three sailors came at him, and he could tell from the way they held their knives that's what they were—sailors, not killers. They'd taken this job for the money, because there were four of them. If not for the man with the gun, McBeth felt he actually would have a fighting chance against them. If he could work his way around to the man with the gun, he wouldn't even have to take it from him, he'd just have to knock it away.

But at the moment the other three were between him and the gunman, fanned out, holding their knives like sailors, not like knife fighters.

He was going to have to get a knife away from one of them and risk a throw at the gunman.

“All right, then, lads,” he said, “you heard the man—come and get me.”

“Oh, we'll get ya, all right,” one of them said. “That's what we're gettin' paid ta do.”

“Enough talk,” the man with the gun said. “Just do it so we can get on wit' our leave.”

If the three men charged him all at once, he wasn't going to have a chance, whether they were experienced fighters or not. They'd take him down by sheer numbers.

He was good, but in this case, he was as good as dead.

 

“Hold it!”

Everybody looked toward the voice—McBeth, the man with the gun, and the three amateur knife fighters.

“Wha—” one of the sailors said.

There was a man standing there, his hands clasped in front of him. He was wearing a gun and looking very calm.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“A murder, I think,” McBeth said.

“This ain't none of your business,” the man with the gun said.

“Well, I was supposed to meet somebody down here on the dock,” the stranger said, “but it looks like they haven't shown up. So I guess I don't have any business of my own.” He shrugged. “I might as well get involved in yours.”

“I don't mind,” McBeth said.

“What have these men got against you, friend?” the stranger asked.

“Nothin' that I know of,” McBeth said. “They are just bein' paid to kill me.”

“By whom?”

“A friend of mine.”

The man frowned.

“You got weird friends.”

“Hey!” the gunman said. “Look, boyo, you should be on your way.”

“Wait, I'm getting it,” the stranger said. “You're all Irish, right? Just got off a boat from Dublin?”

“Galway,” McBeth said. “But for all I know, they might be Dubliners.”

The three men with the knives looked confused. McBeth thought that if the stranger kept the gunman busy, he'd be able to surprise the other three, maybe shove a couple of them into the water before they knew what was happening, leaving him with only one attacker to handle.

“Four against one,” the stranger said. “Those aren't very fair odds. Why don't we start with you putting the gun down?”

“What?”

“Put it down,” the man said. “Then you and me, we can watch your boys take on . . . what's your name?”

“McBeth.”

“We can watch them take on Mr. McBeth,” the man said. “Frankly, I'm willing to bet on him. Your boys don't look very smart.”

“What?” The gunman was confused as well.

“Put it down.”

The man flexed his fingers around the butt of the gun.

“Don't get nervous,” the stranger told him. “You fire that thing, even by accident, and I'm going to have to kill you.”

“I-I got my gun in my hand, friend.”

“That doesn't matter to me . . . friend. You're in America now. We're all fast-draw artists. Haven't you read any of the books?”

“You mean, like Wild Bill Hickok?” McBeth asked.

“Exactly like Wild Bill Hickok.”

McBeth looked at the gunman.

“If I were you, lad, I'd put it down.”

The gunman risked a look at his ship, but there was nobody watching from the deck. He licked his lips while the three men with knives turned to look at him.

“Kill him!” he told them as he turned his gun toward the stranger.

Clint had been hoping to talk the sailors out of killing the other man, but obviously that wasn't going to happen. As the gunman turned on him, he drew and fired one shot. He hit the man dead center, drove him back off the dock and into the water with a splash.

Clint turned his attention to the other three men, who had charged at their target. He could tell by the way they held their knives that they were not experienced knife fighters.

He watched as McBeth dropped to the ground and managed to trip up two of the men. They went sprawling as McBeth got back to his feet and disarmed the third man, then deposited him into the water.

McBeth turned as one of the other men was getting up. They faced each other, each holding a knife. Then the sailor—not liking the new one-to-one odds—jumped back and ran away.

Clint ejected the spent shell from his gun, replaced it with a live one, then holstered the gun and walked over to where McBeth was leaning over the felled body of the last attacker on the gangplank.

When Clint reached him, McBeth straightened up.

“He fell on his knife.”

Clint looked toward the water. The man he'd shot was floating facedown. The other man who had fallen into the water was gone. He had probably crawled out farther down the block and run away.

“You need one of them to tell you who hired them?” Clint asked.

“No,” McBeth said picking up his bag. “It was the captain of this ship.”

“You want to go aboard and get him?” Clint asked. “I'll back your play.”

“No,” McBeth said, “As I told you, he was a friend of mine.”

“Was?”

“Well, he tried to have me killed,” McBeth said. “I think the friendship is over.”

“But you're going to let him go?”

“Aye, I am.”

“How come?”

“He was paid to hire it done,” McBeth said. “Make it look like a robbery.”

“And doesn't that upset you?”

“It tells me I'm on the right trail.”

“Trail?”

“I'm looking for a man,” McBeth said. “A killer. He came to this country to escape me.”

“Okay.”

“He probably offered the captain more money than he's ever seen,” McBeth went on. “I can't blame him for taking it.”

“That's very understanding of you.”

“There's just no point in going back aboard that ship,” McBeth said. “I've got work to do.”

“Work?”

“I'm a Garda.”

Clint frowned.

“I'm sorry,” McBeth said. “Here you would say I'm a policeman—or lawman.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Do you know of a hotel near here?” McBeth asked.

“I know of a lot,” Clint said, “but they're not fit for any kind of extended stay.”

“Oh, I only need a room for one night,” McBeth said, “perhaps two.”

“What about a drink? And a meal?”

“That would be brilliant.”

“Come on,” Clint said. “I know someplace you can get all three.”

Clint walked McBeth away from the Barbary Coast, closer to Portsmouth Square. They stopped in front of the Black Diamond Hotel.

“I can't afford this, boyo,” McBeth said,

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I know the owner, and I have a room here. They have great steaks. When's the last time you had a steak?”

McBeth laughed and said, “A long time.”

“Come on,” Clint said, “it's on me.”

“On you?”

“I mean that I'll pay,” Clint said. “For the dinner. And I'll get you a good price on a room. Come on. We'll talk over a couple of thick steaks.”

McBeth shrugged and they went inside.

 

The Black Diamond was a smaller version of the grand hotels and gambling halls on the square. It catered to the crowd that existed between the plushness of Portsmouth Square and the squalor of the Barbary Coast.

Clint had been staying at the Black Diamond for four days, taking most of his meals there. He usually got the same waiter, Billy, and he was glad to see the young man again.

“Billy,” he said, “my new friend needs a thick steak, and I'll take one, too.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Adams. He just get to town?”

“Just got off the boat, Billy,” Clint said. “And we'll take a couple of cold beers to go with it.”

“Comin' up.”

“Adams?” McBeth asked. “That's your name?”

“Clint Adams, yeah,” Clint said.

“And what are you doing in San Francisco?” McBeth asked. “You said on the dock you were lookin' for someone. Who was it?”

“Just somebody who was supposed to have some information for me.”

“I see.”

“Are you wearing a gun?” Clint asked. “I think I can see a rig under your coat.”

“Aye, I wear one,” McBeth said, “but that feller with the gun got the drop on me, so now I have a holster and no weapon. It's in the water.” He held his coat open to show the empty holster.

“That won't be a problem to replace,” Clint said, “unless it was a favorite of yours.”

“Don't have favorite guns, Mr. Adams,” McBeth said. “It's just a tool to me.”

“Probably a good way to think of them,” Clint said.

Billy came back with two cold beers and set them down on the table.

“Steaks are comin' up, gents.”

“Good, Billy, good,” Clint said.

McBeth wasted no time picking up the beer and drinking half of it down.

“Oh, aye,” he said, setting it down, “I needed that, I did.”

Clint drank some of his and also set the mug down.

“You want to tell me about this fellow you're hunting?” Clint asked. “Maybe I can help.”

“How long have you been here?” McBeth asked.

“About four days.”

“The man I'm after probably got here about a week ago.”

“Maybe he stayed in San Francisco long enough for me to spot him.”

“His name is Jamie Dolan.”

“Jamie?”

“It's an Irish name.”

“What's he look like?”

“Big, ugly, mid-thirties,” McBeth said. “Likes to kill with his hands.”

“Who?” Clint asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean who does he like to kill?” Clint asked.

“Oh, women and children.”

“Children?”

“Young girls mostly.”

Clint shook his head.

“I can't understand men like that,” he said, “and I've known a lot of them.”

“This one's an animal.”

“Why did he come to this country?”

“He knows I'm following him,” McBeth said. “Wherever he goes, he knows I'll follow.”

“But why come here?”

“Because this gets me away from the other Garda—from my colleagues. Here it's just him an' me.”

“And that suits you?”

“That suits me just fine.”

“Here ya go, Mr. Adams.” Billy set their plates down in front of them. “Fresh beers?”

“Yeah, Billy, thanks,” Clint said.

The young waiter left. McBeth cut into his steak, stuck a huge chunk into his mouth. He chewed, regarding Clint across the table.

“What is it?” Clint asked.

“Adams . . .” McBeth paused. “Clint Adams. Why do I know that name?”

“Give it some thought.”

They tucked into their steaks, and halfway through the meal McBeth sat back and said, “Saints preserve us.”

“You got it?”

“Even as far away as Ireland we've heard of the Gunsmith,” McBeth said. “I thought that draw of yours was fast. Fastest I've ever seen.”

“Lots of fast-draw artists in Ireland?” Clint asked.

McBeth laughed.

“No,” he said, “not a lot.”

“So wait until you see some others here,” Clint said, “before you rush to judgment.”

After the meal, both men pushed their plates away and sat back. When the waiter appeared, Clint asked McBeth, “Coffee?”

“Is it good?”

“Passable.”

McBeth looked at the waiter.

“Black.”

“Same as Mr. Adams,” Billy said. “Comin' up.”

“Well, I described Jamie to you,” McBeth said. “Do you think you've seen him?”

“Can't say,” Clint answered. “Big and ugly matches too many men I know. How do you expect to find him?”