The Loner: Crossfire

Chapter 11

Hans and Ulrich were big, but they were slow. Conrad avoided their lumbering rush by bounding down the stairs toward Dutchy and Carmen. The girl shrieked and ran, but Dutchy stood his ground, bellowing, “Help! Stop him! Help!”

Several burly customers sprang to his aid. As Conrad reached the bottom of the staircase, a man pushed Dutchy aside and swung a mallet-like fist at Conrad’s head. Conrad ducked the punch and hooked a hard right into the man’s midsection. The man grunted in pain, doubled over, and staggered backward.

Unfortunately, that delay was long enough for one of Dutchy’s bouncers to leap down the stairs and slam into Conrad from behind. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him off his feet. They crashed onto a table that splintered under their weight. Conrad landed amidst the debris with his attacker on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs, stunning him.

“Hold him, Ulrich!” Dutchy shouted.

Ulrich’s arms tightened around Conrad, preventing him from drawing in any air to replace what he had lost. Almost instantly, Conrad’s head began to spin and a red haze drifted over his eyes. On the verge of losing consciousness, he drove an elbow into Ulrich’s belly, hoping to loosen the man’s grip, but it was like hitting a wall made of thick, sturdy planks and didn’t seem to have any effect.

The roaring in his head rose to a thunderous level. Conrad knew he was about to pass out. Then he heard a shout that was muffled by the pounding of his pulse, and the vise-like grip around his chest and the great weight on his back was released. He rolled over and lay with his chest heaving as he dragged in great lungfuls of air.

His blurry eyesight cleared after a moment and he saw a large, black-clad shape flashing back and forth. He pushed himself to a sitting position and got a better look at what was going on. His rescuer was a tall, broad-shouldered man who kept Dutchy, the bouncers, and the patrons of Spanish Charley’s at bay by slashing back and forth with a large, heavy-bladed hatchet.

Conrad wasn’t surprised when he saw the man’s yellow-hued skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and black hair braided into a pigtail that hung down his back between his shoulders. The man also had a peculiar scar shaped like a half-moon on his right cheek. The hatchet men of Chinatown were famous—or notorious was probably a better word to describe them—but Conrad didn’t know any reason why one of them would be helping him.

He wasn’t going to turn down the aid. As he struggled to his feet, he spotted a man with an old cap-and-ball revolver on the balcony drawing a bead on the big Chinese.

Conrad’s hand flashed to his Colt still behind his belt at the small of his back. Sweeping his coattails aside, he brought up the revolver and fired a split second before the man on the balcony did. Conrad’s bullet smashed into the man’s elbow, shattering bone and throwing off his aim. The old revolver boomed, but the heavy slug smacked harmlessly into a wall. The man screamed, dropped the gun, and clutched at his wounded arm. He fell forward against the railing along the edge of the balcony, smashed through it, and plummeted into the angry crowd, knocking a couple men to the floor as they broke his fall.

Conrad put his back against that of his unexpected ally and swept the gun around. The mob drew back.

“I’m not a spy and I’m not a policeman,” Conrad said raggedly as he continued to catch his breath. “But I’m leaving here, and nobody better try to stop me.”

“You lie!” Dutchy accused. “You’re up to no good!”

“Back off and I’ll never set foot in this place again. I promise you that!”

Gradually, the crowd parted. Conrad kept a close eye on them as he edged toward the door with the Chinese man beside him.

Evidently anyone who had the impulse to pull a gun thought better of it, having seen what had happened to the man on the balcony. Conrad and his companion reached the door. They couldn’t go through it together. The Chinese man jerked his head toward the door, indicating Conrad should go first. He didn’t argue and ducked outside.

No sooner had his boots hit the street than a shot rang out from his right. He heard a bullet whip past his head and twisted in that direction. Some of Dutchy’s friends must have come out a side entrance and up the alley to the street. More shots blasted as orange muzzle flame stabbed from the darkness of the alley mouth.

Conrad crouched and returned the fire, triggering two swift shots as he aimed at the flashes. Beside him, the Chinese man emerged from the saloon and took a hand in the fight, too. His arm flashed back, then forward, and the hatchet he held spun through the air. Conrad heard a distinctive chunk! and a man screamed.

The shooting stopped as a figure reeled forward into the dim light spilling through the grimy windows of Spanish Charley’s place. The man pawed with both hands at the hatchet blade buried in his upper chest. His strength deserted him, and he pitched forward.

Conrad grabbed the sleeve of the black jacket the man wore and tugged on it. “Let’s get out of here!”

As furious shouts rose behind them, they ran along the street. A few wild shots followed them, but none of the men from Spanish Charley’s gave chase. Conrad and his companion had proven to be too deadly.

After putting several blocks behind them, the two men slowed. Conrad heard shrill whistles in the distance and knew the police were converging on the saloon in response to reports of the gunfire. They would be too late, as usual. The ruckus was over.

Conrad looked at his companion. He didn’t know if the man spoke English, but he said, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer back there without your help.”

The man grunted.

“What’s your name?” Conrad asked. “Did you just happen to come along and see what was going on?” He didn’t believe that for a second, but wasn’t aware of any other explanation.

The Chinese man didn’t say anything. He looked at Conrad with narrowed eyes for a second, then turned and loped away into the night.

“Hey, wait!” Conrad called after him, but it didn’t do any good. In a matter of moments, the man disappeared into the shadows, just like he had shown up suddenly and mysteriously.

Conrad shook his head. He had no explanation for what had just happened, but he knew he’d been lucky to get out of Spanish Charley’s alive. Now that he’d been given another chance, he intended to make good use of it as he continued his search for his children.

He had what might be his best clue so far. One of the men who had taken part in the attempt on his life had a connection to the Golden Gate, a saloon or gambling den on Grant Street. Should he turn over that information to Claudius Turnbuckle and see what the lawyer’s hired detectives could find out about it?

Or should he continue his own investigation and pay a visit to the Golden Gate himself?

He knew which way he was leaning, but he had done enough for one night. He still had to find a way to sneak back into the Palace Hotel without Morelli spotting him.

That proved to be easier than Conrad expected. He used a tradesman’s entrance in the rear to get into the hotel, then climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where a stealthy look around the corner revealed that Morelli was sitting back in his chair with his hat tipped forward over his eyes, snoring heartily. Conrad crept past him silently, unlocked the door of his suite, and let himself in. The door squeaked as he opened it, and Morelli began to stir.

Conrad had lost the stevedore’s cap during the fight at Spanish Charley’s. Stepping into the bedroom, he grabbed a long, thick robe and wrapped it around himself as he strode back to the door and jerked it open. He surprised Morelli in the act of raising a hand to rap on the door.

“Mr. Browning!” the bodyguard said. “What ... I thought I heard ... Is something wrong?”

“Only you sleeping on the job,” Conrad said in a chilly tone. “My God, man, I could hear you snoring while I was all the way in the bedroom.”

Morelli snatched off his derby and stammered, “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Browning. It won’t happen again, I swear. I won’t close my eyes the rest of the night. Y-you can see your way clear not to say anything to Mr. Turnbuckle about this, can’t you?”

Conrad kept a frown on his face for a moment, but when he figured he had maintained the act long enough, he shrugged. “All right. But stay alert, Morelli.” He added caustically, “I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but somebody wants me dead.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but they’ll not get past me, sir, you’ve got my solemn oath on that!”

Conrad made a shooing motion with his hand, sending Morelli back to the armchair. He closed the door, drew in a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. His ribs ached from that bear hug Ulrich had put on him. But the Palace, haven of luxury that it was, had hot running water available in all its suites, so Conrad drew a bath, stripped off the workingman’s clothes, and sank down in a massive, claw-footed porcelain tub to soak away those aches.

He made sure his Colt was fully loaded and lying on a chair within easy reach of the bathtub, and alongside the gun he had placed the carved ivory token from the Golden Gate. After soaking for a while, he reached over to the chair, picked up the token, and studied it, idly turning it over in his fingers.

Tomorrow he would find out more about the place it came from. If someone connected with the Golden Gate had the initials D.L., he would know he was still on the right trail. And if not ... well, he would keep looking.

Nothing was going to stop him from finding and claiming his children. This was the endgame, and Pamela wasn’t going to win.