anyone was watching him, which certainly seemed possible, he didn’t want them to realize that he was awake.
As he lay there, he concentrated on letting details about his surroundings seep into his mind, helping him to not think about how bad his head hurt. He was lying on his stomach, with his head turned to the right and his left cheek pressed into what felt like a hard wooden surface. That surface
When Conrad put those things together—the tang of salt water, the reek of fish, the steady movement of the boards on which he lay—he came to the inescapable conclusion that he was on a boat, lying either on deck or down in a hold. Probably in a hold, because he didn’t feel any air moving.
Even through closed eyes all he could sense was darkness. That meant it was either still night, or the darkness was another indication he was belowdecks.
He decided to risk cracking one eye open. He raised his right eyelid a fraction of an inch, not really enough for him to see anything but enough to let in any nearby light.
Nothing. The blackness continued to surround him.
If he couldn’t see anything, that meant nobody could see him. He opened both eyes. After a moment, he lifted his head. Fresh waves of pain rolled through his skull, so intense he had to squeeze his eyes closed again until the throbbing subsided. Eventually the pain lessened.
Conrad shifted to determine if he was tied up. His arms and legs were free, which was a bit surprising.
On the other hand, if he was locked up in the hold of a ship, where could he go?
The word sprang into his mind and a horrified shudder went through him. He was in San Francisco, after all. The town was notorious for all the men who had been drugged, kidnapped, and taken aboard ships bound for the Orient. By the time those unfortunates regained consciousness, the vessels were well out to sea, and they had no choice but work. If they refused, it was a simple matter for their captors to knock them in the head and toss them overboard for the sharks. Because of the destination that lay across the Pacific for many of these ships, it became common to say that a man had been shanghaied when he was drugged and forced to join the crew.
Would Lannigan do such a thing to him? Conrad didn’t doubt for a second the man was capable of it. He might think dooming Conrad to such a hellish existence was more punishment than simply killing him. It was even possible Pamela might have come up with the idea herself when she struck her deal with Lannigan three years earlier.
But no matter whose idea it was, Conrad knew he had to get out. He could tell by the slight motion of the ship that it was still riding at anchor, probably in San Francisco Bay. If it had already sailed, it would be moving around much more as it rode the waves. If he could get out of the hold, he could still escape before the ship was out at sea.
He pushed himself into a sitting position and waited for the pain in his head to subside. Looking around, he searched for even a tiny crack of light that would indicate the location of a hatch. He didn’t see anything. Maybe there wasn’t a hatch that led on deck. There had to be some way into the chamber, though. A door in a bulkhead, maybe.
Before making a move, he made sure he was alone. He hadn’t heard anyone else moving around, nor had he heard any breathing, but it was possible the men who had attacked them on the dock had thrown Morelli in with him. In an urgent whisper, he said, “Morelli! Morelli, are you there?”
Silence was his only answer.
But it wasn’t complete silence. Now that the pounding in his head wasn’t as bad, he could hear a faint sloshing sound—water moving around in the bilge—which meant he was low down in the ship. He heard something that might have been far-off footsteps, and a low, barely heard moan, but not a human one. That was a foghorn, Conrad realized.
He reached out in the darkness and felt around him, searching for a bulkhead or possibly the ship’s curving hull. When he didn’t feel anything he moved onto hands and knees and crawled forward, using his left hand for balance and keeping his right extended in front of him.
He hadn’t gone very far when his fingertips brushed against something. At first he thought it was a wall, but in feeling around, he discovered it was a large crate.
It gave him something to lean on as he struggled to his feet. His head spun crazily as he stood up, and for a few seconds he thought he was going to fall. Forcing himself to stand still, he took some deep breaths, and the world steadied around him.
He swallowed the feeling of sickness welling up in his throat. Steadfastly ignoring it, he sat on the low crate for a few minutes, bracing himself with his hands on his knees.
With the resilience of youth and the rugged life he had led the past couple years, some of his strength came back to him. While sitting there, he took stock of what his captors had left him.
It wasn’t much. He had his boots, his trousers, and his shirt. His coat and hat were gone, and so were the shoulder holster and the .38 Smith & Wesson he had carried. His pockets were empty. No coins, no matches, nothing.
If he was still locked up when the ship sailed, he would have no way to prove he was Conrad Browning ... not that the captain and crew would have cared, anyway. They had to know what was going on. Probably Lannigan had paid them off.
His only chance was to get off the ship before it sailed.
The footsteps he suddenly heard coming closer in the darkness might be the key to doing just that.
Chapter 19
Frank insisted on paying a visit to the Golden Gate Saloon alone. “If this fella Lannigan knows who Conrad is and has spies watching him, he’s bound to know who you are, too, Claudius.”
“What about me?” Arturo asked.
“You’ve got a bullet hole in you that’s still healing,” Frank pointed out. “You probably shouldn’t have traveled all the way here from Carson City to start with.”
“The doctor assured me it would be all right as long as I took it easy.”
“That means you don’t need to be getting mixed up in a ruckus,” Frank said.
“Do you intend to start a ruckus in Lannigan’s saloon?” Arturo asked.
Frank chuckled. “I’m not exactly planning on it, but you never know what’s going to happen. Sometimes I think trouble’s in the habit of following me around.”
“Yes, I know the feeling quite well. The same thing is true of your son.”
“I don’t doubt it. He comes by it honestly.” Frank paused. “Anyway, no offense, Mr. Vincenzo, but you don’t exactly look like the sort of hombre who’d patronize a Barbary Coast saloon.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Arturo admitted. “But please, call me Arturo.”
“That’s Italian for Arthur, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“I used to know an old mountain man whose real name was Arthur, even though nobody ever called him that. He barely remembered it himself. Haven’t seen him in years. He must be dead by now. He’d be almost a hundred if he’s not.” Frank pushed those thoughts aside and got back to the matter at hand. “The chances of Lannigan or anybody who works for him knowing who I am are pretty slim. Anyway, even if somebody recognized me as Frank Morgan, not all that many people know Conrad and I are related.”
“Pamela Tarleton did,” Turnbuckle reminded him. “There’s no way of knowing what she might have told Lannigan.”
“That’s true,” Frank admitted, “but I’m willing to run the risk. If I can get Lannigan alone, he’ll tell us what we need to know.”
“My God, Frank,” Turnbuckle said. “You can’t be thinking about torturing the man.”
In a hard, flinty voice, Frank said, “This is my son we’re talking about here ... and my grandchildren. And a man who’d make a deal with a she-devil like Pamela Tarleton who brought nothing but suffering to everybody
