J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

“It’s not that. It might be dangerous for you. Lannigan will be there, and if he sees you with Frank and me, he’d likely think you’d betrayed him. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

The way she paled at the thought gave Conrad his answer.

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “If you think it’ll be safe for me to go with this Wrong Duck.”

“That’s Wong Duck,” Ling Yuan said in a stiff voice.

Conrad smiled. “I think the lady knows that.” He took Connie’s hand. “Thank you for helping me. Maybe I’ll see you again later on.”

“I hope so.” She sounded like she meant it.

Ling Yuan ushered her out of the room. Conrad stripped off his filthy clothes and put on the clean white shirt, the black trousers, the vest, and the black coat. He tied the silk cravat he found in the breast pocket of the jacket and fastened it down with an ivory-headed stick pin.

Ling Yuan came back and handed him a small revolver that Conrad recognized as the Smith & Wesson .38 he had bought a couple days earlier.

“I found it on the docks last night where Lannigan’s men captured you,” the big hatchet man explained. “You must have lost it during the struggle.”

Conrad checked the loads in the gun, then slipped it into his waistband where the suit coat would conceal it. “Much obliged. I’d lost track of it. All I knew was that I didn’t have it anymore.”

He ignored the dull headache he still had as Ling Yuan took him back to Diamond Jack’s office. Stopping just inside the door, Conrad gave a surprised grunt when he saw his father wearing a suit every bit as elegant and expensive as the one he wore. “Never thought I’d see you decked out like that, Frank.”

“Never thought anybody would ever catch me in one of these monkey suits, either. But Jack pointed out we might not get into that mansion where the party’s going on if we showed up looking like we did. It’s bad enough that face of yours looks like you’ve gone fifteen rounds with Gentleman Jim Corbett.”

“Did you ever see Corbett fight?” Diamond Jack asked with interest from behind the desk.

Frank smiled and nodded. “Shoot, I was even the referee at one bout ... but that’s a long story and we don’t have time for it right now.”

“That’s right,” Conrad said. “We need to get to Madison Kimball’s house. There’s no way of knowing for sure how long Lannigan will be there.”

“I have a carriage waiting for you,” Diamond Jack said. “Don’t worry, the driver is white, so he won’t look out of place. I have a few of your people working for me, for situations such as this. Money, I’ve found, has no color other than green.”

Conrad nodded. “We appreciate all your help.”

“Remember ... should Dex Lannigan not survive this night, I would feel the spirits of my ancestors smiling upon me.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” Conrad said, “but if Lannigan doesn’t tell me what I want to know, there’s a good chance those ancestors of yours will be grinning before the night is over.”

Chapter 26

The big house on Nob Hill, one of many in the exclusive neighborhood, was lit up brilliantly. Dozens of carriages and buggies gleaming with expensive brasswork sat parked in the curving driveway running in front of the porticoed entranceway. Conrad had been to many places like that. He had been a fixture at the lush, lavish parties given by his mother and also at the parties thrown by her millionaire friends.

Looking at the Kimball mansion as he and Frank swung down from the carriage Diamond Jack had provided, Conrad was struck by the thought that normally he would have preferred to be in the high country somewhere, watching an eagle wheel through the blue sky, or out in the lonely vastness of the desert where a man could truly find peace. That realization brought home to him exactly how much he had changed over the past few years.

But the man who might be able to tell him where to find his missing children was inside the mansion, so at that precise moment in time, there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Frank tugged at his cravat and sighed. “I don’t see how some fellas wear these dadgum things all the time. Feels like somebody’s about to slip a black hood over my head and drop me through a trapdoor in a gallows floor.”

“It’s not that bad,” Conrad said. “And stop pulling at it. We’re supposed to look like we belong here, remember?”

Frank stopped fidgeting with his cravat and patted the slight bulge under the jacket at his waist. That prompted Conrad to touch the .38 tucked away in his waistband, even though he could feel the weight of the gun. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the door, where a man in butler’s livery stopped them. “I need to see your invitation, sir,” he told Conrad.

The invitation was still in his suite at the Palace Hotel, Conrad realized. He hadn’t thought to retrieve it. “I’m afraid I don’t have it with me,” he said easily, “but if you have a list of invited guests, I’ll be on it. Conrad Browning.”

“And how might I be certain you are indeed who you say you are, sir?” the butler asked with a trace of a sneer on his face.

Conrad reined in the annoyance he felt at the man’s attitude. Considering his battered, beardstubbled appearance, he supposed he couldn’t blame the butler for being suspicious of him.

“Why don’t you check with Mr. or Mrs. Kimball?” he suggested. “Both of them are personally acquainted with me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t think of disturbing them while they’re occupied with their guests.”

Conrad was torn between the urge to punch the stuffed shirt in the face and the impulse to pull out his gun and force his way in. Thankfully, he didn’t have to do either of those things. At that moment, a familiar husky voice called, “Conrad! There you are. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.”

He looked past the butler and saw Francis Carlyle coming toward him. The newspaper columnist was quite attractive in a dark green gown that set off her eyes. Conrad wasn’t surprised to see her there. Despite having a job, Mrs. Carlyle was still a member of the society circles about which she wrote for the Chronicle . Of course the Kimballs had invited her so they could get a favorable writeup in the paper.

Conrad smiled. “Hello, Francis.”

The butler turned to her. “Do you know this man, Mrs. Carlyle?”

“Of course I do. He’s Conrad Browning.” Mrs. Carlyle slapped the butler on the arm. “Now get out of the way and let him and his friend in.”

The servant rolled his eyes, but he moved aside. Conrad and Frank walked into a foyer with a beautiful parquet floor.

Mrs. Carlyle looked Frank up and down with obvious interest. “Who’s this?”

Frank glanced at Conrad, who thought he saw a hint of desperation in his father’s eyes. Even given the seriousness of the situation, Conrad had to suppress a chuckle. “This is Frank Morgan. An old friend of mine.”

“Not that old.” Mrs. Carlyle took Frank’s hand. “Morgan, Morgan ... There’s something familiar about that name. You’re not related to J.P. Morgan, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” Frank said.

“Well, it’ll come to me.” She moved between Conrad and Frank and linked arms with both. “Come with me. I’ll show you around. You’ve been here before, of course, Conrad, but it’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has.” He lowered his voice as they moved into a huge, fancy ballroom filled with men in sober suits and women in glittering gowns. “You remember that I’m here to see Dex Lannigan.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Carlyle replied. Still smiling, she nodded to partygoers they passed. “I’m taking you to him. By the way, what happened to your face? You look like you got caught in a threshing machine.” The reference was a reminder of her humble beginnings.