Bounty Hunter

Chapter 24

“See anything?” Langford asked.

“More than I wanted to,” Tone said.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. No, I saw no sign of him. The Ripper is long gone.”

The cop was irritated again. “Damn it, Tone, don’t call him that name. If the newspapers get hold of it they will play hob.”

But the damage was already done.

Happy to be the center of attraction, the old harpooner had regaled the crowd with his description of the dead woman and her assailant. Now the words “the Ripper” were on every tongue.

“I’ve sent for the detectives,” Langford said, “to see what they make of this.” He waved a hand to the young cop. “This officer will stand guard until they arrive.” He smiled mischievously. “I told Johnson to tell them they’ll have to pick up the body. Detectives love that, getting their nice clean hands dirty.”

“Busy night already,” Tone said.

“It’s the fog,” Langford said. “Damn, I hate the fog.” He was silent for a while, taking his time to think, then said, “Let’s go talk with Melody Cord. The lady keeps her ear to the ground and generally knows what’s happening along the waterfront.”

The cop smiled. “Don’t get too excited, Tone. Her name’s Melody all right, but she’s a little out of tune.”

“Crazy?”

“You could say she is, a little. She owns a drinking dive named the Jolly Jack that caters to the whaling trade. The only ship that’s arrived in port during the last twenty-four hours was the whaling barque Derwent Hunter out of New Bedford town. The ship’s arrival and the murder of the whore might only be coincidence, but at the moment coincidences are the only leads we have.”

“What about the harpooner who discovered the body?” Tone asked.

“It wasn’t him. I looked and there wasn’t a speck of blood on him. You can’t gut a woman and not get bloody in the process.” Langford again lapsed into silence for a moment, his face thoughtful. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

The cop shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’ll wait and hear what the detective branch has to say.”

The Jolly Jack was the only single-story building on Pacific Street and hard to find in the fog. Langford told Tone that the tavern was said to be made from the timbers of old whaling ships, but he wasn’t sure if that was true or not.

“If it is true, the walls must have some stories to tell,” he said.

The big cop stepped inside first, Tone following close behind him.

There were around fifty men in the place, and a dozen women, almost invisible behind a cloud of pipe smoke. A girl, younger and prettier than the others, was sitting on the rough pine bar, showing her shapely legs as she picked out the chords of “Sweet Annie’s Blue Dress” on a battered guitar.

Faded prints of sailing ships and whales covered the walls, along with rusty harpoons, splintered oars and an array of flensing tools hanging from part of a massive jawbone. The tavern was lit by lamps fueled with sperm whale oil that provided a soft white light and burned with a pleasant fragrance.

When the girl on the bar saw Langford, her playing faltered to a stop and the buzz of conversation faded, then died away to a few whispers.

“Thomas Langford, you won’t find your Ripper in here,” a female voice challenged from the blue murk. “Now begone with ye.”

A woman pushed her way through the tables, fists on her huge hips. She stood as tall as Tone but outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Her black hair hung in disarray over her wide shoulders and she sported a mustache that many a man would be proud of. Her breasts were huge, hanging in front of her like sacks of grain, the great V of her cleavage deep enough to hide a bottle of rum.

Her blazing brown eyes bored into Langford. “Are you here to make trouble? Cat got your tongue? Speak up, man.”

“It’s always good to see you, Melody.” The cop smiled. “And may I say you look as beautiful as ever.”

“Cut the shit, Langford,” the woman snapped. “What do you want? I run a respectable establishment here.”

“You heard about the dead woman? Her name was—”

“I know what her name was. I never let Annie Forbes come in here and spread her pox to my customers.”

Langford smiled. “Very commendable of you, Melody, I’m sure.” He paused as if in thought, then said, “The whaling barque Derwent Hunter arrived in port two days ago, then tonight Annie Forbes is murdered horribly. It might only be a coincidence, but such happenstances do bear investigation.”

“’ere, copper, are you accusing us o’ ripping that whore?” This from a big, belligerent-looking Englishman who sat at a table, a bottle of rum in front of him, a blond woman in his arm. “If you are, then speak plain and be goddamned to ye.”

An angry chorus of approval ran around the tavern as Langford held up his hands for silence. When he got it, he said, “I’m not accusing anyone. Did any of you notice a small, slight man, dressed like a gent, come in here tonight? He may or may not have had bloodstains on his clothes.”

“No, we didn’t,” Melody said, stepping forward aggressively. “Now put it to rest, Sergeant Langford. These men have been at sea for three years and they have plenty of uses for whores, but a ripping is not one of them.”

The woman waited until the roars of ribald laughter receded, then she said, “Now leave my place, Tom Langford, or I’ll play my bagpipes and drive you out.” She turned to the girl on the bar. “Fannie, my pipes, girl. I’ll give these gentlemen a skirl they’ll never forget.”

“Such drastic measures won’t be necessary, Miss Cord. Sergeant Langford has been circumspect and has accused no one.”

Langford and Tone’s eyes met. A small, slight man dressed like a gent had stepped into the middle of the tavern floor.

He was Luther Penman.