“Claudius ... I’m sorry my troubles have put you in danger again.” Several months earlier, Turnbuckle had been wounded by a gunman hired by one of Conrad’s enemies, as part of the ongoing plot against him.
Turnbuckle waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. Since we’ve started representing the interests of you and your father, there’s been more excitement in my life than ever before.”
“Not necessarily the sort of excitement you might want, though,” Conrad pointed out.
“Speaking of your father,” Turnbuckle said, “have you thought about getting in touch with him to see if he could help you with your search?”
Conrad frowned. “You know where Frank is?”
“Well, not exactly. I could probably locate him, though, if I set out to do so. The last I heard, he was in Alaska.”
“Alaska?” Conrad repeated with a smile. “That sounds like Frank. Always wandering.”
“They don’t call him The Drifter for nothing.” Turnbuckle paused. “What about it? Do you want me to try to find him?”
Conrad shook his head. “No, this is my problem, not Frank’s.”
“He’s always been glad to help before. And those children are his grandson and granddaughter, after all.”
Conrad tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty snifter on an expensive, hand-carved sideboard. “No.”
“Very well. It’s up to you, certainly.” Turnbuckle finished his drink. “I should be going and let you get some rest. I’m glad we both survived the night.”
Conrad nodded. Surviving was generally a good thing ... although there had been a time when he wished more than anything in the world that he had died along with Rebel, so he wouldn’t have to live without her.
Once Turnbuckle was gone, Conrad stripped off the clothes that stunk of stale beer and tossed them on the floor. The hotel staff could clean them or burn them or whatever they wanted to do. He washed up, then fell onto the soft, luxurious four-poster bed in the elaborately decorated bedroom.
Despite his weariness, sleep didn’t come easily to him. He thought about everything that had happened, and something occurred to him. He got up and padded over to the clothes he had discarded. From a pocket in the trousers he took the little object he had picked up from the street next to the beer wagon.
It was round, about the size and shape of a silver dollar, but it was lighter because it wasn’t made from metal but rather carved from what appeared to be ivory. The thing reminded Conrad of a poker chip, but it was bigger than most poker chips he’d seen, and it had a picture carved in relief on it. It might be an identification token, he decided as he turned it to get a better look in the light from the gas lamp he had turned on. Something a man might flash to gain entrance to a place, or to identify himself to others who might not know him otherwise.
He realized almost instantly the scene depicted on the item was a familiar one. Two points of land extended toward each other, with a wide stretch of water between them. Conrad had been to that place on numerous occasions, and he had ridden a ferry from one side of that strait to the other. His heart began to beat faster as he took in the implication of what he held in his hand.
He was looking at a representation of the Golden Gate.
Chapter 9
Turnbuckle arrived at the hotel the next morning while Conrad was having breakfast, which a waiter had delivered and served in the sitting room of his suite. The lawyer looked tired, which was not surprising considering his age and the fact that he had gotten only a few hours sleep.
He had news to report. He took the cup of coffee Conrad offered him and said, “I’ve been in touch with one of those sources inside the police department you mentioned. One of those would-be assassins killed last night was named Floyd Hambrick. He was a known criminal suspected of a number of killings along the Barbary Coast. His grandfather was a Sydney Duck.”
Conrad raised his eyebrows to indicate he didn’t understand the reference.
“That was a gang of Australian criminals who dominated the San Francisco underworld back in the fifties, in the days after the Gold Rush,” Turnbuckle explained. “A lot of them were hanged by the Committee of Vigilance, but some survived, and even married and had children and grandchildren. In Hambrick’s case, evidently the proverbial apple didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree.”
“Have the police been able to tie this fella Hambrick in with anybody else?” Conrad asked.
Turnbuckle shook his head. “Not so far. I suspect it may not be a very productive lead. Hambrick, and no doubt the other two men, were simply hired assassins, the sort who would kill anyone if the price was right.”
Conrad sipped his coffee and nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time such men had come after him since he’d started his search for the twins. Someone was always masterminding those efforts, though, someone who had been paid off directly by Pamela while she was still alive. He was confident that would turn out to be the case.
That mastermind might finally be able to tell him where his children were.
He picked up the ivory token from the table next to the fine china holding the remains of his breakfast and tossed it to Turnbuckle. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
The lawyer studied the token, turning it over in his fingers and running a fingertip over its carved surface. “That looks like the Golden Gate.”
“I’m convinced it is.”
Turnbuckle handed the token back to him.
“But, no, I’ve never seen one like it before, at least not that I recall. Where did you get it?”
“It was lying in the street next to the wagon carrying all those beer barrels,” Conrad explained. “I can’t prove the man who drove the wagon and cut the barrels loose dropped it ... but he might have.”
“I’d say it’s even likely,” Turnbuckle replied. “Should I take it and show it to some of our investigators ?”
Conrad shook his head. “No, I’m going to hang on to it. But you can describe it to them and see if they remember ever seeing anything like it.”
“Fine. I’ll do that. In the meantime, what are your plans?”
“You told me to rest and relax, remember?” Conrad smiled. “That’s what I intend to do.”
Turnbuckle looked a little like he had a hard time believing that, but didn’t say anything. He finished his coffee and left.
A short time later, dressed in a brown tweed suit, Conrad opened the door of the suite and looked out into the hall. A large man wearing a derby and sporting a red handlebar mustache sat a few feet away in an armchair he had pulled up from somewhere. The man was reading a newspaper, but he looked over and gave Conrad a polite nod.
“I suppose Claudius stationed you there,” Conrad said.
“The boss says you ain’t to be disturbed, Mr. Browning. It’s my job to see to it things stay that way.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dugan, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Dugan, you’re supposed to prevent anyone from getting into this suite. Are you also supposed to prevent me from leaving?”
Dugan set his paper down in his lap, took off his hat, and scratched a bald, somewhat bulletshaped head. “He didn’t say nothin’ about that.”
“I’m surprised,” Conrad said.
“Just that if you go anywheres, I’m to go with you and make sure nothin’ happens to you.”
“Oh. Do you have a family, Mr. Dugan?”
A grin split the big man’s face. “Aye, sir. A fine wife and four redheaded little ones.”
“Did Mr. Turnbuckle inform you that the last men he hired to watch over me all wound up dead?”
Dugan’s grin went away. “He told me. That don’t matter. I’m bein’ paid to do a job, and I figure on doin’ it.”
“That’s an admirable attitude. And I assure you, if anything happens to you, I’ll see to it that your family is
