Chapter 12

Back at the hotel, Conrad filled Arturo in on what he had discovered at the sanitarium. “It was a close call,” he concluded. “Futrelle could have claimed I was crazy and kept me locked up there from now on.”

“Doubtful, sir,” Arturo said. “For one thing, I know you’re sane, and so does Mr. Mallory. We would have taken action on your behalf.”

“No offense, Arturo, but I’m not sure the word of a valet and a shamus would carry enough weight against a man like Futrelle to do any good.”

“None taken, sir. In that case, I would have simply gotten in touch with your father and told him you had disappeared. Even though I’ve never met Frank Morgan, I suspect he would not have allowed the situation to go unchallenged.”

Conrad grinned at the thought. Frank Morgan had come to Boston once before to right a wrong, and Conrad had no doubt Frank would have answered Arturo’s summons, much to the regret of Dr. Vernon Futrelle.

“We don’t have to worry about that,” Conrad said. “Futrelle has enough sense to keep his mouth shut.”

“What if he tries to make sure your mouth is shut … permanently?”

“You mean if he hires somebody to kill me?” Conrad shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time, now would it? I’m pretty hard to kill.”

He hoped that continued to be true.

By the time evening rolled around, Conrad was dressed in clothes he had sent Arturo out to buy at a second-hand shop. The gray tweed suit was threadbare, and Conrad preferred not to think about the origin of the stains on it here and there. Under it he wore a dingy work shirt and no tie. Brogans with holes in the soles were on his feet. Arturo handed him a workingman’s cap and watched critically as Conrad pulled it down on his sandy hair.

“Sir, you look positively disreputable.”

Conrad smiled. “Good. Maybe I won’t look too out of place at Serrano’s.”

“You wouldn’t look out of place in the back of a police wagon, either. What is it they call them? Black Marias?”

“Something like that.”

He was only going to carry one Lightning, since the coat wasn’t cut to conceal either the shoulder harness or the cross-draw rig that belted around his waist. He checked the revolver, made sure the hammer was resting on the lone empty chamber, and tucked it behind his belt at the small of his back.

A knock sounded on the door of the suite. Conrad said quietly, “You can answer that while I get out of sight in case it’s not Mallory.”

He stepped into his bedroom while Arturo went to the door. A moment later the valet called through the open doorway, “It’s all right, sir, it’s the gentleman you were expecting.”

Mallory wore a buttoned-up overcoat despite the season not warranting it, and he had a neatly creased fedora on his head. He took off the overcoat to reveal that he was dressed in old, well-worn clothes like Conrad. He brought a flattened derby from under his coat and punched it into shape. It looked like it had been knocked off and stepped on in numerous barroom brawls. If he had worn the garb openly into the hotel’s lobby, he never would have been allowed upstairs.

The two men nodded in approval of each other’s outfit.

“Nobody’ll pay much attention to us in a dive like Serrano’s,” Mallory said.

Conrad asked, “Are you armed?”

Mallory reached into one pocket and brought out a heavy black sap. Another pocket produced a pair of brass knuckles. “And if that’s not enough”—the detective stowed those items away—“I’ve got this, too.” He brought out a razor that he opened with a flick of his wrist. The obviously keen blade glittered in the lamplight.

“Excellent,” Conrad said with a nod. “I have a .38.”

“I hope we won’t need it. We don’t want to get in a shootout with Murtagh and his boys. They’ll outnumber us, and they’re lads who don’t shoot to wound.” Mallory paused. “What is it you intend to do, anyway? You can’t just ask Murtagh who hired him to kill you.”

“I don’t know,” Conrad admitted. “I’ll figure that out when we get there.”

Mallory sighed. “I ought to have my head examined for going along with a crazy scheme like this.”

“I know a place where you could have that done,” Conrad told him, smiling. “Dr. Futrelle’s sanitarium. Once he got you in there, though, he might not let you out again.”

Mallory frowned. “What do you mean by that? What happened over there this afternoon?”

Conrad told him about the conversation in Futrelle’s office and the violence that had resulted. When he was finished, Mallory said, “Somebody needs to take that man down a notch or two.”

“I promised to leave him alone if he went along with what I said.”

Mallory rubbed his angular jaw. “Yeah, but I didn’t. I’ll be keeping an eye on him from now on.”

“I don’t think that would hurt a thing.”

A short time later, they were ready to go. Before they left the hotel room, Arturo asked, “Would it do any good to tell you to be careful?”

“Probably not,” Conrad said.

He and Mallory waited until the hotel corridor was clear of guests and staff, then walked quickly to a set of service stairs and went down, leaving the hotel through a rear entrance used by employees. Once they were outside, they caught a streetcar that took them to the North End of Boston, within walking distance of the dangerous neighborhood where Serrano’s tavern was located.

“Keep your wits about you,” Mallory warned as he and Conrad walked along the narrow streets. “The Eyeties aren’t that fond of Micks like me, and they’ll likely take you for one, too.”

“How does Murtagh get away with making Serrano’s his headquarters?”

“He’s always surrounded by plenty of tough boyos who can shoot fast and straight. And Eddie Murtagh likes living dangerously. He and Serrano have a truce, but it’s a delicate one.”

Conrad was aware of hostile stares and glances directed toward him and Mallory by the people they passed on the street, but no one tried to stop them. A few minutes later they came to Serrano’s, an old frame building with large, dingy front windows covered by heavy curtains. When they went in, they found themselves in a foyer where two large men lounged, passing a jug of some sort of liquor back and forth. They were obviously guards, and came to their feet as Conrad and Mallory entered.

“What do you want here, Irish?” one of the men asked as he thrust his jaw belligerently at Mallory.

Conrad answered, “We’re looking for Eddie Murtagh.”

“No Micks here,” the other guard snapped. “Go back to the south side.”

Conrad shrugged. “All right, but Murtagh won’t be happy when he finds out you cost him some money.”

“What sort of money?”

“The sort you can spend.”

The man moved closer to him, hands clenching into fists. “I don’t like funny Irishmen. They ain’t funny.”

“Just go tell Murtagh that Futrelle sent us,” Conrad said.

“Who the hell is Futrelle?”

“He’ll know.”

Conrad had no idea if Murtagh knew who Dr. Futrelle was, but it seemed like a worthwhile gamble. If Murtagh was connected somehow with Pamela, he might know where she had gone to give birth to the twins.

The guards thought it over. They looked at each other, and one of them shrugged. The other nodded and turned to go through a closed door on the other side of the foyer. During the moment it was open, Conrad heard piano music coming from inside, along with talk and laughter.

The guard who was left slipped a hand into a coat pocket. Conrad was pretty sure the man was gripping a gun.

The other man came back a couple minutes later. “Serrano says let them in,” he reported. “But if they cause any problems, out they go on their Irish asses.”

“Fair enough,” Conrad said.

He and Mallory went on through the foyer into the tavern’s main room. It was dim and smoky, an eastern version of the sort of squalid western saloon Conrad had seen more than once. A man wearing an apron over his vest and trousers got in their path. His nose was big and impressive, and his dark eyes sparkled with menace.

“I’m Serrano,” he growled. “What do you want with Eddie Murtagh?”

“I have a business deal I want to offer him,” Conrad said.

Serrano was every bit as big and brawny as Mallory. He looked like he could break most men in half without really trying. He jerked his head toward a door. “In there. But tell Murtagh I don’t like him doing business here. He can come here and drink, but he needs to keep his business elsewhere.”

Conrad nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

“I’ll go first. Otherwise you’re liable to get shot, and it’s hard enough keeping this place clean without a lot of blood on the floor.”

Serrano led them to the door and knocked on it. A rough voice from the other side of the panel asked, “Who is it?”

“Serrano. Murtagh has visitors.”

The door opened a little.

“No shooting, got it?” Serrano said.

“Come on in, laddies,” the voice said, and something about it reminded Conrad of death. It was like being invited into a grave.

He and Mallory stepped into a room lit by a couple of lamps that had been turned down low. Four men were in the room. The one who had answered the door was as cadaverous as his voice. Two men sat at a table with glasses and a half-empty bottle of wine in front of them. The fourth man was stretched out on a sofa, his ankles crossed and a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He held a huge revolver on his chest that looked like a miniature cannon.

One of the men at the table was smoking, too. He said around the cigarette between his lips, “Thanks, Serrano.”

The tavern owner lifted a finger. “No trouble.”

“No trouble,” the man at the table promised. His voice was soft … but so was the hiss of a snake, Conrad thought. As the door closed behind Serrano, the man looked at the two visitors and asked, “What can I do for you lads?”

“Dr. Futrelle sent us.” Conrad moved a step closer to the table.

The gaunt man who had let them into the room slid a hand out from under his coat, revealing a big revolver. It looked heavy enough that the weight seemed to be more than his spindly arms ought to be able to support, but he handled the weapon like it was a toy.

Conrad was close enough to see the eyes of the man at the table. They were a very pale bluish-gray, like chips of ice. And the man’s hair, which was brushed back thickly from his forehead, was as black as midnight. He was Eddie Murtagh, Conrad thought.

And Murtagh was the man who had been with Pamela when she left the sanitarium with the children.

His children, Conrad thought, putting more steel in his spine.

“Who’s Futrelle?” Murtagh asked.

“You know who he is,” Conrad answered confidently. “And you have something that belongs to him. He wants those records back that Miss Tarleton took with her.”

Slowly, Murtagh shook his head. “What makes you think I know anything about any records? And who’s Miss Tarleton?”

“You know perfectly well who she is. She’s the one who paid you, three years ago, to get rid of anyone who showed up looking for her, especially her ex-fiancé, Conrad Browning.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Murtagh insisted, “and you’re beginning to bore me. Not to mention you’ve worried my friend Serrano. I think you should leave now.”

“Not without those records you took from Futrelle’s sanitarium. Unless Miss Tarleton destroyed them …?”

Murtagh didn’t respond to that. He poured wine from the bottle into his glass and said to the other man at the table, “Get them out of here. If they give you any trouble, kill them.”

The man put his hands on the table and started to heave himself to his feet. Mallory was starting to look pretty worried.

He was about to get even more worried, Conrad thought. Before Murtagh’s companion could get up, Conrad’s hand swept his coat back, pulled the .38 from behind his belt, and lined it up on Eddie Murtagh’s face. “Those were my children, you bastard, and unless you tell me what happened to them, I don’t care if I walk out of here alive.”