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.

Conrad said, “It’s a long story, and I’ll make sure you and Jessup Nash get all the details later.”

“If you decide to leave Nash out of it, I won’t argue with you.” Before Conrad could respond to that, Mrs. Carlyle stopped and nodded her head. “Over there, under that big painting of Madison and Roberta ... that’s Lannigan and his wife Winifred.”

Conrad tried not to be too obvious about staring at him. The man was tall and rather rawboned, with an angular face and white hair that was somewhat premature for his age, which Conrad put around forty. The woman standing next to him, smiling radiantly in a light blue gown, was about ten years younger, with a pile of lustrous black curls on her head and a richly curved body that filled out her gown nicely. She was pretty rather than beautiful and had a sweet look about her face. She didn’t strike Conrad as the sort who would be married to a powerful criminal ... but he supposed there was no particular type for doing such a thing.

Lannigan was talking to several well-dressed men while his wife stood by smiling pleasantly. Conrad kept drawing his eyes back to her for some reason. Leaning closer to Francis Carlyle he asked, “Lannigan’s wife’s name is Winifred, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Was he already married to her when he bought the Golden Gate and started working his way into San Francisco society?”

“Why, I don’t really know. I might be able to find out for you.”

Conrad nodded. “If you could do that, I’d appreciate it.” He wasn’t sure why he was so curious about Winifred Lannigan, but he had learned to follow his hunches.

“Why don’t you and Mr. Morgan wait over there for a few minutes?” Mrs. Carlyle suggested, pointing to a small alcove. “I’m assuming you don’t want to talk to Lannigan just yet?”

“That’s right.”

On the way from the crowded ballroom, Conrad snagged a couple glasses of champagne from a passing waiter who carried a tray full of them. Frank took the delicately stemmed glass Conrad handed him and frowned. “I never cared much for this fizzy water.”

“Just sip it. We’ll look more out of place if we’re not drinking, and we already look odd enough, what with my battered face and your obvious hatred of that suit and cravat.”

Already Conrad had spotted quite a few people who looked familiar to him, even though he didn’t remember their names. Some might remember him, though, so he avoided conversation by stepping into the alcove.

He didn’t want word spreading that Conrad Browning was in attendance. That news might make its way to Lannigan’s ear, and Conrad didn’t want to ruin the surprise fate held in store for the saloon owner.

While Frank sipped his champagne, Conrad used the glass to help shield the bruises and scrapes on his face from view. He looked around for Francis Carlyle, but the woman had disappeared into the crowd.

“Conrad? Conrad Browning, is that you?” another woman’s voice asked.

Conrad had no choice but to look over and smile at Roberta Kimball, the hostess of the night’s affair. She was an elegantly beautiful middle-aged woman with honey-colored hair only lightly touched with gray. She gasped quietly as she got a better look at Conrad’s face. “Dear Lord, what happened to you?”

“Just some unpleasant business that has no bearing on this party,” Conrad lied. He leaned closer and kissed Mrs. Kimball on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“And you, too, of course. When Francis Carlyle told me you were in town, I knew I had to have you here so all your old friends could see you again. Oh, Conrad, I’m so sorry—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I know. I appreciate that, Roberta.”

“After the tragedy, you should have come back here. We would have taken care of you.”

Conrad nodded. “I thought it best to keep busy.”

In his case, keeping busy had meant tracking down the men who had kidnapped and murdered Rebel and finding out the truth from them, the truth that ultimately had led him to Pamela Tarleton. He had kept busy, all right ... busy killing.

“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with this gentleman,” Roberta said as she turned to Frank.

“Allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Frank Morgan. I hope it’s all right I brought him along this evening. Frank, this is Mrs. Kimball, our hostess.”

“I’m mighty pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Frank said with a polite nod.

“Of course it’s all right, Conrad. Mr. Morgan, please make yourself at home.”

“Yes, ma’am. Much obliged.”

She frowned slightly, as if his manner puzzled her, but before she could say anything else, Francis Carlyle reappeared. “Roberta, you simply must go set Madison straight. He insists it was two years ago you made that voyage to Hawaii, instead of three.”

Mrs. Kimball shook her head. “I swear, poor Madison is getting so forgetful. Excuse me, Conrad, Mr. Morgan. Please, enjoy the party.”

“We will,” Conrad told her.

Once Mrs. Kimball had moved away into the crowd, Francis Carlyle said quietly, “I found out what you wanted to know, Conrad. Lannigan and his wife were married shortly after he bought the Golden Gate. She’s a widow from somewhere back east.”

“She doesn’t hardly look old enough to be a widow,” Conrad said.

“Widowhood can happen any time. In her case, she didn’t just get a husband, she got a new father for her children.”

“Children?” Conrad repeated. A hollow feeling suddenly spread through his stomach.

“That’s right. She has two. They were babies at the time, actually, so it must not have been very long since her husband passed away.”

“Two ... children.” Conrad’s voice sounded strange in his ears, muffled by the sudden pounding of his pulse inside his head.

“That’s right. A boy and a girl.” Francis Carlyle paused. “Someone told me they’re twins.”


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