The Loner: Crossfire

Chapter 15

Accompanied by Patrick Dugan, Conrad visited a gunsmith’s shop the next day and picked out a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber double-action revolver with a five-shot cylinder and a barrel that wasn’t much more than two inches long.

“The barrel was three and a quarter inches starting out,” the gunsmith explained, “but I took some off that to make it easier to carry in the inside pocket of a coat or in a shoulder holster. You can get a smaller gun, Mr. Browning, but the .38 will put a man down where a .32 won’t always.”

Conrad nodded as he checked the heft and balance of the weapon and liked what he felt. “With such a short barrel, you can’t expect much accuracy, can you?” he commented.

“Only at close range,” the gunsmith admitted. “But that’s where you’re most likely to need a gun such as this, isn’t it?”

Conrad couldn’t argue with that. He bought the gun and a shoulder holster the gunsmith was only too happy to sell him.

Conrad had told Dugan about attending the ball at the Kimball mansion. He figured Morelli had already reported to Turnbuckle about the butler delivering the invitation the night before, so there was no point in trying to keep it a secret. As they walked back to the hotel with Conrad carrying the case containing the revolver and the holster, Dugan said, “You bought that gun to wear to the party, didn’t you, sir?”

“With everything that’s happened, I think it’s probably a good idea to be armed at all times.” Conrad was carrying his Colt at the moment, in the black holster and gunbelt strapped around his hips. While it was a little unusual to see someone who was openly armed walking around San Francisco, it wasn’t unheard of. Conrad smiled and added, “Even though I have a fine bodyguard with me.”

Dugan grunted. “Considerin’ what I know about you, Mr. Browning, I reckon if trouble broke out it’d be more likely for you to save my life than the other way around.”

“Let’s just try to avoid trouble,” Conrad suggested.

“But be ready for it if it comes.”

Conrad nodded. “Always.”

Time dragged by. Jessup Nash paid a visit to Conrad’s suite at the Palace Hotel the next day, clearly hoping he could get his old friend to reveal more details about that big story he’d been promised, but Conrad remained tight-lipped. He did the same when Francis Carlyle called on him later that same day. She made it fairly obvious she would be willing to spend some time with him in his bedroom whether he told her any more about the story or not, but he eased her out of the suite discreetly and without hurting her feelings.

That evening, with twenty-four hours to go until the Kimballs’ ball, Claudius Turnbuckle arrived at the suite with an excited expression on his face. “Good news,” he said when Conrad led him into the sitting room. “I think my men have finally found D.L. and the Golden Gate.”

Conrad didn’t have the heart to tell his old friend he had known the probable identity of D.L. for several days. “Tell me about it.”

“There’s a saloon on Grant Street in the Barbary Coast called the Golden Gate,” Turnbuckle said, “and it’s owned by a man named Dex Lannigan !”

“And you think he’s the one who sent those killers after us?”

“I’m certain of it. The initials match, and my investigators report that the men who work for Lannigan carry a token like the one you found in the street to identify themselves. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, Conrad, but I’m convinced this is the answer we’ve been looking for!”

Conrad nodded. “I think you’re right. Excellent work, Claudius, as always.”

Turnbuckle went on. “Lannigan has a reputation as a power in the criminal underworld along the bay, but he came out of nowhere about three years ago. About the same time he could have struck a deal with Pamela, in other words.”

“It all makes sense,” Conrad agreed.

They continued to discuss the situation for several minutes, and if Turnbuckle noticed Conrad wasn’t quite as excited as he might have been if all the information were new to him, he didn’t mention it. After telling Conrad more about Lannigan’s background, the lawyer said, “Here’s the really interesting part. Acting probably at his wife’s behest, Lannigan has bullied his way into society, and as a matter of fact, they’re both supposed to be in attendance at a party given by Madison Kimball and his wife tomorrow night.”

Conrad raised his eyebrows. “The ball at the Kimball mansion? I’m going to that affair, Claudius!”

“I thought you might be. I had one of my men dig up a picture of Lannigan, so you’ll recognize him if you see him there.” Turnbuckle held out a folded newspaper.

Conrad didn’t have to feign eagerness as he took the paper. He didn’t know what Dex Lannigan looked like, so as he studied the photograph printed on the front page of the newspaper, his interest was genuine.

The picture showed a man standing beside a carriage parked in front of a large building that appeared to run the length of an entire city block. The man was tall and seemed to be well built, wearing an expensive suit and a derby. The hair under the hat was fair. His face was rugged and a little angular, and although the photographer hadn’t been close enough for Conrad to get a good look at Lannigan’s eyes, there was something hawkish about the saloon owner. Maybe it was just his imagination, Conrad told himself, but Lannigan looked dangerous.

The building behind him had large, fancy windows, and a large sign on it read THE GOLDEN GATE—FINE WINE AND SPIRITS—GAMES OF CHANCE—ENTERTAINMENT—EVERYONE WELCOME!

“This was taken not long after the place opened,” Turnbuckle explained. “One of my men dug it out of the morgue at the Chronicle.”

Conrad nodded. He should have thought of that idea himself. He was sure Jessup Nash would have helped him. But at least he had an idea what Lannigan looked like, although he suspected the man’s appearance would be somewhat different in evening wear, at a fancy Nob Hill party.

Conrad would know Lannigan when he saw him, though. He was certain of that.

“You’re going to have to be careful if you confront him there,” Turnbuckle cautioned. “Lannigan has a reputation as a bad man to cross.”

Conrad thought about the short-barreled S&W .38 he was already wearing in the shoulder rig so he could get used to it. “I intend to be.”

“What we need now is something we can hold over Lannigan’s head in order to make him talk,” Turnbuckle mused. “That won’t be easy. Criminals like that can be very closemouthed.” “Maybe what I should do is pretend not to know him. That way I can introduce myself and act like I’m not suspicious of him at all. He might let something slip.”

Turnbuckle rubbed his chin and frowned in thought. “Perhaps. I think it’s more likely we’re going to have to have him followed and maybe send undercover agents into that saloon of his to find out anything that’s really useful.”

“Whatever you say,” Conrad replied with a nod.

“Really?” Turnbuckle looked surprised. “That’s not like you, Conrad. No offense, but you always want to be right in the middle of things.”

“That hasn’t worked too well so far,” Conrad said, although in reality it had worked better than Turnbuckle had any idea about. “Maybe it’s time to give your way a try.”

Turnbuckle nodded emphatically. “I won’t let you down, you have my word on that. But do try to find out whatever you can by talking to Lannigan at the Kimballs’ ball. It can’t hurt.”

“I will.”

Turnbuckle bustled out excitedly, leaving Conrad to smile, shake his head, and pour brandy into a snifter. He was sitting in one of the armchairs, sipping the drink, when a commotion suddenly broke out in the hallway. Frowning, Conrad set the brandy aside and got to his feet.

A woman screamed in the corridor.

Conrad jerked the door open to see Morelli struggling with a small, shapely female. Scratches on his face oozed blood where she had scratched him. As Conrad stood looking on in surprise, Morelli succeeded in getting his arms around the girl in a bear hug and lifted her off her feet from behind.

“I told you, girl, no little trollop like you is gonna be botherin’ Mr. Browning!” Morelli panted.

“Let me go!” she cried. “I must talk to him—”

“Morelli!” Conrad said sharply. “What’s going on here?” He hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman. She and Morelli were turned partially away from him, and her dark hair hung in front of her face. As Morelli turned toward the door, his captive gave a defiant toss of her head, throwing her hair back. A shock went through Conrad as he recognized her as Carmen, the young prostitute from Spanish Charley’s.

“Please, señor,” she begged. “You must help me! No one else can, and if you don’t ... they will kill me!”