J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

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 the slender, balding man he was looking for and walked over to that desk, trailed by Dugan.

The reporter glanced up as they approached, then looked again with eyes grown wide with surprise. “Conrad Browning!” he exclaimed as he came to his feet. “I heard rumors you were in town, but I hadn’t been able to confirm them yet.”

“Hello, Jessup.” Conrad shook hands with the man. Despite the lack of hair on the reporter’s head, he was about Conrad’s age. In fact, they had been in college together for a while before Jessup Nash had decided he had no interest in running the textile mills his family owned and had disappointed them severely by going into journalism.

“Jessup, this is Patrick Dugan,” Conrad went on, having asked the big bodyguard his first name earlier. “Dugan, meet Jessup Nash.”

Dugan grunted as his hairy paw all but swallowed Nash’s smaller hand. “I’ve seen the name in the paper. Never thought I’d be meetin’ the fella it belongs to.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Dugan.” Nash turned back to Conrad. “What brings you to San Francisco? Business or pleasure?”

“For some people it’s the same thing,” Conrad pointed out.

“Yes, I remember when it was like that for you. But from everything that I’ve heard, ever since—” Nash stopped short and looked horrified. “Damn it, Conrad, I was so glad to see you that for a minute I forgot ... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about your wife, and then everybody said you were ... I mean—”

“I know what you mean”—Conrad nodded—“and I appreciate the sentiments, Jessup. But sympathy’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for information.”

“Of course.” Nash pulled a chair from an empty desk over beside his desk. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“You want me to stay, Mr. Browning?” Dugan rumbled.

“I think it would be all right for you to go down to the lobby where you’ll be comfortable. I’m confident no one will try to assassinate me here in the Chronicle ’s editorial offices.”

Dugan frowned. “Sounds good, but I’m supposed to keep my eye on you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Conrad promised. “I’ll come get you when I’m ready to leave.”

“If you’re tryin’ to trick me, you know I’ll lose my job over this.”

Conrad smiled. “I wouldn’t do that to those four redheaded little ones of yours.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Dugan said ominously. He walked back to the stairs and disappeared down them.

As Conrad and Nash sat down, the reporter said, “Your friend Mr. Dugan has the appearance of someone who’s been hired to look after you. By Claudius Turnbuckle, say?”

“Jessup, before I tell you anything, or ask you anything, I have a request.”

Nash looked pained. “You don’t want me to print anything that we’re about to discuss.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s a very difficult thing for a journalist to promise, Conrad. Our business is finding things to print.”

“I know that. And I can give you a good story—maybe a better story than you’ve ever had—but only when the time is right.”

“You’ll promise me an exclusive in return for my discretion and cooperation now?”

“Exactly.”

Nash thought about it for a moment before saying, “Normally I wouldn’t agree to such a thing. But since we’re old friends ... and since I have a hunch you’re right about it being quite a story ... I’ll take a chance. What is it you want to know?”

“I have your word you won’t write anything about this until I tell you it’s all right?”

Nash nodded, although he still looked a little reluctant. “My word.”

“What can you tell me about a place in the Barbary Coast called the Golden Gate?”

“The Golden Gate what? Walk around this city and you’ll find everything from the Golden Gate Saloon to the Golden Gate Laundry. You mentioned the Barbary Coast, which leads me to think you’re more likely talking about the saloon.”