The Loner: Crossfire

Or should he continue his own investigation and pay a visit to the Golden Gate himself?

He knew which way he was leaning, but he had done enough for one night. He still had to find a way to sneak back into the Palace Hotel without Morelli spotting him.

That proved to be easier than Conrad expected. He used a tradesman’s entrance in the rear to get into the hotel, then climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where a stealthy look around the corner revealed that Morelli was sitting back in his chair with his hat tipped forward over his eyes, snoring heartily. Conrad crept past him silently, unlocked the door of his suite, and let himself in. The door squeaked as he opened it, and Morelli began to stir.

Conrad had lost the stevedore’s cap during the fight at Spanish Charley’s. Stepping into the bedroom, he grabbed a long, thick robe and wrapped it around himself as he strode back to the door and jerked it open. He surprised Morelli in the act of raising a hand to rap on the door.

“Mr. Browning!” the bodyguard said. “What ... I thought I heard ... Is something wrong?”

“Only you sleeping on the job,” Conrad said in a chilly tone. “My God, man, I could hear you snoring while I was all the way in the bedroom.”

Morelli snatched off his derby and stammered, “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Browning. It won’t happen again, I swear. I won’t close my eyes the rest of the night. Y-you can see your way clear not to say anything to Mr. Turnbuckle about this, can’t you?”

Conrad kept a frown on his face for a moment, but when he figured he had maintained the act long enough, he shrugged. “All right. But stay alert, Morelli.” He added caustically, “I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but somebody wants me dead.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but they’ll not get past me, sir, you’ve got my solemn oath on that!”

Conrad made a shooing motion with his hand, sending Morelli back to the armchair. He closed the door, drew in a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. His ribs ached from that bear hug Ulrich had put on him. But the Palace, haven of luxury that it was, had hot running water available in all its suites, so Conrad drew a bath, stripped off the workingman’s clothes, and sank down in a massive, claw-footed porcelain tub to soak away those aches.

He made sure his Colt was fully loaded and lying on a chair within easy reach of the bathtub, and alongside the gun he had placed the carved ivory token from the Golden Gate. After soaking for a while, he reached over to the chair, picked up the token, and studied it, idly turning it over in his fingers.

Tomorrow he would find out more about the place it came from. If someone connected with the Golden Gate had the initials D.L., he would know he was still on the right trail. And if not ... well, he would keep looking.

Nothing was going to stop him from finding and claiming his children. This was the endgame, and Pamela wasn’t going to win.

Chapter 12

The redheaded, mustachioed Dugan was on bodyguard duty again the next morning when Conrad opened the door to Claudius Turnbuckle’s knock. Conrad nodded and smiled at Dugan and ushered Turnbuckle into the suite. “Coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Turnbuckle replied.

Conrad had been eating breakfast, which had been delivered to the suite by a waiter from the hotel dining room. He had also been reading that morning’s issue of the San Francisco Chronicle, which had been brought up with the food and coffee. Tucked away in the paper’s rear pages was a small story about a brawl at a saloon in the notorious area known as the Barbary Coast resulting in the death of two men, one from a gunshot wound and the other from injuries inflicted with a hatchet, which had been found still lodged in the victim’s body. The presence of the hatchet led the author of the story to speculate that perhaps one of the tongs from nearby Chinatown had been involved in the violence.

The same possibility had occurred to Conrad once he had time to think over the events of the evening. The criminal societies known as tongs had ruled San Francisco’s Chinatown for more than four decades, ever since the Chinese began to arrive in the gold rush days along with everyone else. The rulers of the tongs used assassins known as hatchet men to maintain their iron grip on the neighborhood and also to battle each other in bloody wars over who controlled what in Chinatown.

The big man in black who had come to Conrad’s aid certainly fit the description of a hatchet man, but for the life of him Conrad couldn’t see why such an individual would invade a “round eyes” saloon to rescue him. He had no connection with the tongs whatsoever.

Conrad poured coffee for Turnbuckle, who put his hat and overcoat on a side table and took the steaming cup gratefully. “Anything to report?” Conrad asked as he sat down at the table again.

Turnbuckle shook his head and looked weary. “No, I’m afraid not, perhaps by the end of the day. Until we know something my men will continue to investigate.” He took a sip of the coffee. “Any problems here last night?”

“How could there be, with your man Morelli on duty?” Conrad asked with a bland smile. “And in the finest hotel in San Francisco, to boot.”

Turnbuckle grunted. “Nothing about this affair surprises me anymore.”

Conrad smiled to himself. He suspected if Turnbuckle knew everything that had happened the previous night, he would be surprised, all right.

The lawyer was a friend who had gone to great lengths to help him on more than one occasion, and Conrad felt bad for withholding information, but thought he might have more luck investigating the latest lead by himself. He could always bring Turnbuckle in when he knew more.

They talked rather aimlessly for a few more minutes, then Turnbuckle asked, “What are you going to do today?”

Conrad picked up the folded newspaper. “I thought I might go down to the Chronicle offices.”

“Why?” Turnbuckle asked with a puzzled frown.

“Newspapermen are famous for knowing what’s going on. I want to talk to a journalist I know who works there.”

Turnbuckle shook his head. “No offense, Conrad, but that’s a bad idea. You wanted to keep this matter quiet if possible. That’s why we haven’t brought the police in on it. Talking to a reporter is like asking to have your personal affairs shouted from the rooftops.”

“You’re probably right in most cases, but I believe the man I’m thinking of will respect my wishes if I ask him for privacy.”

“Never trust a newspaperman, that’s my motto,” Turnbuckle said stubbornly.

Conrad smiled. “Some people say the same thing about lawyers,” he pointed out.

Turnbuckle grunted. “Of course you should do whatever you think is best. I’ve given you my advice. That’s my job.”

“And you’re excellent at it.”

“If you go out, at least take Dugan with you.”

“I don’t think the estimable Mr. Dugan would have it otherwise.”

Turnbuckle finished his coffee and left. Conrad dressed in his black suit and flat-crowned black Stetson. When he stepped out of the suite, Dugan stood up immediately from the armchair.

“Goin’ somewhere, Mr. Browning?” the bodyguard asked.

“I am, and you’re coming with me,” Conrad answered. “Do you know how to get to the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle ?”

“I sure do. You need to put an advertisement or a notice in the paper?”

“Something like that.”

They left the hotel and walked several blocks to the impressive redbrick building that housed the offices of the Chronicle. A woman at a counter in the lobby directed Conrad and Dugan to the third floor, where they found a large open area littered with desks where men sat pecking at typewriters. Conrad spotted