much, and I reckon none of ’em completely trust Diamond Jack.” The bodyguard frowned. “Why are you askin’ about tongs and hatchet men and such like?”
Conrad couldn’t very well explain about his perilous adventure at Spanish Charley’s the night before. Dugan would tell Turnbuckle about the incident, and Turnbuckle would increase the number of guards watching over Conrad until it would be impossible to get out from under their scrutiny.
“I saw a big fellow on the street the other day,” he said vaguely, deciding he might be able to risk a description of the man who had come to his rescue. “He was Chinese, dressed all in black, with a half-moon shaped scar on his right cheek.” Conrad traced a finger along his own cheek to indicate the path of the scar. “When I saw him, I said to myself, now that looks like a hatchet man. So the sight made me curious, that’s all.”
Dugan grunted. “Sounds like a hatchet man, all right. Most of them are big, ugly scoundrels. You want to stay away from them, Mr. Browning, and you should steer clear of Chinatown, too. There’s nothin’ down there but joss houses, opium dens, brothels, and eatin’ joints where they serve things you’re better off not knowin’ what they are. No reason for a white man to have anything to do with that place.”
Conrad was sure plenty of white customers patronized those places Dugan had mentioned, but he didn’t point that out. “I’m not going there. I was curious, that’s all.”
“You just listen to old Pat Dugan, sir. I won’t steer you wrong.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Conrad agreed.
At the same time, he wondered about the man who had saved his life in Spanish Charley’s. Dex Lannigan’s Golden Gate Saloon was on the boundary between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown. Was it possible there was a connection between the tongs and his mission to find his children?
Would Pamela have hidden the twins somewhere in the depths of the Chinese quarter? Conrad didn’t want to think so, but at the same time, was anything beyond the realm of possibility when it came to Pamela Tarleton?
Despite what he had told Dugan, he might have to pay a visit to Chinatown after all.
The rest of the day passed quietly, and that evening Conrad was sitting in his suite after supper when someone knocked on the door. Morelli was on duty in the corridor again, and Conrad knew that after being caught sleeping the night before, the bodyguard was unlikely to let anybody into the suite who wasn’t harmless. Conrad opened the door and found a man in a sober black suit standing there, bowler hat in hand.
“Mr. Conrad Browning?” the man asked. Morelli stood a few feet away, watching with his arms crossed and a suspicious frown on his face.
Conrad nodded. “That’s right.”
The man extended a square envelope with a fancy seal pressed into the wax holding it closed. “With the compliments of Mr. and Mrs. Madison Kimball, sir.”
Mrs. Carlyle had kept her promise, Conrad thought as he took the envelope and broke the seal. Sure enough, a fancy, gold-printed invitation to the ball at the Kimball mansion was inside on a heavy, giltedged card.
Conrad knew the man in the black suit—probably the Kimballs’ butler—was waiting for a response to take back to his employers. “Please tell Mr. and Mrs. Kimball I’ll be honored to attend.”
The man inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. I certainly shall. Good evening.”
When the butler was gone, Morelli asked, “Goin’ somewhere, sir?”
“Not tonight. But four nights from now I’ll be attending a party at the Kimball mansion.”
Morelli let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard of the place. Never been there.” He frowned. “Mr. Turnbuckle’s gonna want me to come along with you, and I ain’t sure they’ll let me in.”
“If they think you’re my driver, they’ll let you wait outside with the other drivers.”
Morelli shook his head. “I don’t know if that’ll be good enough
Conrad couldn’t very well explain about his perilous adventure at Spanish Charley’s the night before. Dugan would tell Turnbuckle about the incident, and Turnbuckle would increase the number of guards watching over Conrad until it would be impossible to get out from under their scrutiny.
“I saw a big fellow on the street the other day,” he said vaguely, deciding he might be able to risk a description of the man who had come to his rescue. “He was Chinese, dressed all in black, with a half-moon shaped scar on his right cheek.” Conrad traced a finger along his own cheek to indicate the path of the scar. “When I saw him, I said to myself, now that looks like a hatchet man. So the sight made me curious, that’s all.”
Dugan grunted. “Sounds like a hatchet man, all right. Most of them are big, ugly scoundrels. You want to stay away from them, Mr. Browning, and you should steer clear of Chinatown, too. There’s nothin’ down there but joss houses, opium dens, brothels, and eatin’ joints where they serve things you’re better off not knowin’ what they are. No reason for a white man to have anything to do with that place.”
Conrad was sure plenty of white customers patronized those places Dugan had mentioned, but he didn’t point that out. “I’m not going there. I was curious, that’s all.”
“You just listen to old Pat Dugan, sir. I won’t steer you wrong.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Conrad agreed.
At the same time, he wondered about the man who had saved his life in Spanish Charley’s. Dex Lannigan’s Golden Gate Saloon was on the boundary between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown. Was it possible there was a connection between the tongs and his mission to find his children?
Would Pamela have hidden the twins somewhere in the depths of the Chinese quarter? Conrad didn’t want to think so, but at the same time, was anything beyond the realm of possibility when it came to Pamela Tarleton?
Despite what he had told Dugan, he might have to pay a visit to Chinatown after all.
The rest of the day passed quietly, and that evening Conrad was sitting in his suite after supper when someone knocked on the door. Morelli was on duty in the corridor again, and Conrad knew that after being caught sleeping the night before, the bodyguard was unlikely to let anybody into the suite who wasn’t harmless. Conrad opened the door and found a man in a sober black suit standing there, bowler hat in hand.
“Mr. Conrad Browning?” the man asked. Morelli stood a few feet away, watching with his arms crossed and a suspicious frown on his face.
Conrad nodded. “That’s right.”
The man extended a square envelope with a fancy seal pressed into the wax holding it closed. “With the compliments of Mr. and Mrs. Madison Kimball, sir.”
Mrs. Carlyle had kept her promise, Conrad thought as he took the envelope and broke the seal. Sure enough, a fancy, gold-printed invitation to the ball at the Kimball mansion was inside on a heavy, giltedged card.
Conrad knew the man in the black suit—probably the Kimballs’ butler—was waiting for a response to take back to his employers. “Please tell Mr. and Mrs. Kimball I’ll be honored to attend.”
The man inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. I certainly shall. Good evening.”
When the butler was gone, Morelli asked, “Goin’ somewhere, sir?”
“Not tonight. But four nights from now I’ll be attending a party at the Kimball mansion.”
Morelli let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard of the place. Never been there.” He frowned. “Mr. Turnbuckle’s gonna want me to come along with you, and I ain’t sure they’ll let me in.”
“If they think you’re my driver, they’ll let you wait outside with the other drivers.”
Morelli shook his head. “I don’t know if that’ll be good enough
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