Winter Kill

“Yes, sir.” The clerk stood up and moved toward the office, already forgetting about Frank, who glanced idly through the open door as he turned toward the street.

He frowned. He had caught a glimpse of a woman sitting in a leather chair in front of the harbormaster’s desk. He couldn’t be sure because her back was to him and she wore a rather extravagant hat, to boot, but she reminded him somehow of Fiona.

Well, she had said she was in Seattle on business, he told himself as he left the building. That business could easily involve shipping. And most importantly, it was none of his business.

He found the Montclair without any trouble. It was an impressive, double-masted vessel, but amidships, between those two masts, rose a smokestack, and there were paddle wheels on both sides of the ship, indicating that it was powered by both steam and wind. Frank had never seen a ship like that before, but he had never been around the sea very much, either.

A gangplank with ropes strung along the sides for handrails led from the wharf to the deck. A ship’s officer in a blue uniform stood at the top of the gangplank. He smiled when Frank paused halfway up and said, “Am I supposed to ask for permission to come aboard, or something like that?”

“That’s right, mister,” the officer replied. “But if you’re here hoping to book passage to Alaska, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. We’re full up, and we have been for weeks now.”

“I need to talk to Captain Hoffman.”

The officer’s smile went away. “I told you, it won’t do any good. Either you’ve already booked passage, or you won’t be sailing with us tomorrow. I don’t care if this is one of the last ships this season. You’ll just have to hope that there’s still some gold left for you next spring.”

“I’m not a prospector. I just need to talk to the captain. A friend of mine was supposed to sail on this ship, but he was killed last night.”

“And you want to use his ticket. I see.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. He didn’t much cotton to the officer. He said, “I’ll bet that water in the bay is cold.”

“I’m sure it is. What’s that have to do with anything?”

“You’re about to find out firsthand when I toss you into it,” Frank said. “Unless you get out of my way, that is.”

That was probably a mistake, and he knew it. The ship’s officer could yell for help from the rest of the crew, and likely if anybody went into the drink, it would be Frank himself. But sometimes his temper got the best of him, especially when he was confronted by some stubborn, officious fool.

“What’s going on there, Brewster?” another blue-uniformed man called from the bridge.

“This cowboy wants to talk to you, Captain,” the officer replied. “Something about a dead friend of his booking passage with us—”

“It’s about Jacob Trench,” Frank said, lifting his voice so that the man on the bridge could hear him.

“What’s that?” The captain came closer. “Trench is dead?” He made an impatient gesture. “Let the man on board, Brewster.”

The officer stepped aside. As Frank went past, he said in a low voice, “I don’t like being threatened, mister. I’ll remember that crack about tossing me in the bay.”

“You do that,” Frank said. He hadn’t set out to make an enemy of the man, but he couldn’t help it that the Good Lord hadn’t put any back-up in him, either.

He walked along the deck to the steep, narrow stairs that led to the bridge. They were more like a ladder than stairs, he thought as he went up them.

The captain was waiting for him at the top. “I’m Rudolph Hoffman,” he introduced himself. He was a tall, thick-bodied man with a broad face and graying blond hair under a black uniform cap. “What’s this about Jacob Trench being dead?”

“He was killed in a gunfight last night,” Frank explained. “I’m an old friend of his. Name’s Frank Morgan.”

“I’m sorry to make your acquaintance under these circumstances, Mr. Morgan.”

“Was Jacob a friend of yours, too?”

Captain Hoffman shook his head. “No. In fact, I only met him once. He was coming along on our voyage to Alaska that begins tomorrow.”

“As a passenger?”

“In a manner of speaking. He was working for one of our passengers, guarding some…precious cargo, I suppose you could say.”

Frank didn’t care for the air of mystery behind this deal, whatever it was. He told the captain, “I was with Jacob when he died. He asked me to take over for him and see that the job he was supposed to do gets done. I reckon you can give me all the details about that.”

Hoffman frowned. “I’m not sure I should do that. It seems to me that you should be talking to Trench’s employer. Do you know who that is?”

“Some fella named Devereaux,” Frank said. “That’s all I know. Can you at least tell me where to find him?”

The captain’s frown deepened. “Well…not exactly. But as it happens, I can tell you where to find her.”

“Her?” Frank repeated as his eyebrows rose in surprise. “Devereaux is a woman?”

“Indeed.” Hoffman nodded toward the dock. “And here she comes now.”