Chapter 16

 

When Will and Thomas arrived at Abe Warner’s Cobweb Palace around ten o’clock that evening, Clarence Pickering and his crony Bill Skates were already there.

Pickering had dropped his sincere demeanor for the evening. He looked sulky as a poked bear as he smoked a knobby cigar. He was also sucking up whiskey and playing cards, twin circumstances that made Will smile. He winked at Thomas, who winked back.

The two newcomers moseyed over to the bar where Abe acknowledged them with a knowing nod as he poured them out a couple of beers. Then Will made his way through the crowded barroom while Thomas leaned against the bar and watched.

Acting as though he were merely interested in observing the game, Will stopped beside Pickering’s table. Pickering had his sleeves rolled up, thereby giving Will a perfect view of the livid bruise Emily had inflicted on his forearm earlier in the day.

Pickering glowered at the cards in front of him. It was some time before he realized who was standing beside him, sipping beer and peering with all apparent innocence at the card game.

“Well, if it isn’t the Texas cowboy,” he said sourly, blowing a huge puff of acrid cigar smoke in the general direction of Will’s face. He didn’t bother to smile.

Will, who was used to much worse than cigar smoke from his adversaries, only gave Pickering a guileless grin. “Howdy, Mr. Pickering. Playin’ cards tonight, I see.”

“Clever devil, aren’t you?”

Will chuckled. “How’re ya doin’, Mr. Pickering? Winnin’?”

“I always win at cards, Tex,” Pickering said , with a sneer.

“That so?” Will tried his best to sound impressed.

Pickering’s words were music to Will’s ears. One of his Uncle Mel’s guiding principles was that a man in the throes of a vanity attack was easy pickings. Especially one who was drinking. And Pickering was in the midst of just such an attack right now, and drinking like a fish.

He scratched his chin in an attempt to look both bashful and eager at the same time. “Can I join you gents? I ain’t a big-city feller like you, but I like to play me a game of cards every now and agin.”

Pickering eyed him. “I don’t know that I care to play cards with a Texan,” he said.

“It’d give you a chance to get back at me for throwing’ you acrost that room, Mr. Pickering.” He watched contentedly as Pickering stiffened up like setting cement.

“Damn you,” Pickering muttered.

“I ain’t the best, but I’d like to try.”

Will could tell Pickering was furious. “Well, now, I guess we could find room for a country boy at this table. How about it, gents?”

The other men nodded, obviously uninterested in Pickering’s private animosities, and Will pulled out a chair and sat down, he knew he’d won.

As was his wont, Will started out slowly, assessing the skill of his fellow players carefully. He lost the first two hands, although it took a good deal of effort to do so. His respect for Clarence Pickering, already dim, flickered and died out entirely when he realized what an unutterably bad poker player the man was.

He sipped at his beer, watching Pickering down glass after glass of whiskey. God, he hadn’t realized how easy this was going to be. He and Thomas needn’t have spent so much time on their plan after all.

With a sigh, Will settled in for a long night of playing poker—and playing Texas Lonesome.

“Hurt your arm, Mr. Pickering? That there looks like a nasty bruise,” he said at one point.

His innocent observation earned him a vicious frown from his adversary.

“Yeah. Must have bumped it on something,” Pickering snarled. “Gimme two,” he added with a mean glare.

Will, who was dealing, gave him two, chosen with the utmost care from the cards he had put by for the purpose. Years and years of practice had honed Will’s card-cheating skills to perfection.

Now, as Pickering sank further and further under the hatches thanks to the combined effects of whiskey and his dislike of Will Tate, his game began to deteriorate. A sloppy card player when he was in full possession of his faculties, he became downright slovenly as the evening progressed.

Will kept the full armor of his “Texas Lonesome” pose in place as he played. Very carefully, without anyone being aware of it, he eased Pickering’s stake out of his grip. If Thomas Crandall had not taken a solemn oath to maintain a wooden expression no matter what happened, he would have applauded his friend’s performance. Although Will never allowed himself a streak long enough to arouse suspicion, slowly but surely his winnings piled up. His winnings were evenly matched by Pickering’s losses.

Pickering’s personality became even more sincere when he was under the influence of liquor and hate. “Hell,” he grumbled at about one in the morning. “You bastard Texan. You’re gonna have everything I own pretty damned soon.”

“Shucks, Mr. Pickering,” Will murmured, “I don’t know what’s goin’ on tonight. Guess I’m just a lucky son of a gun.”

Little by little, the other players drifted off. By three o’clock, the only two men remaining at the table were Will Tate and Clarence Pickering. Thomas Crandall, straddling a rickety wooden chair, watched, as did Abe Warner, from behind the bar where he was wiping glasses with a rag.

“Well, damn it all to hell,” Pickering finally muttered. “I don’t have anything left to play with. You took it all, you son of a bitch.”

Pickering didn’t look as slick as he had when Will and Thomas first entered the saloon. His hair was mussed and his summer suit was no longer immaculate, but was wrinkled and had collected a spattering of liquor spots.

Will adopted such a woebegone expression, Thomas had to shut his eyes for a moment for fear he would burst out laughing.

“Well, gee golly, Mr. Pickering. I’m still in the mood to play. Ain’t you got nothin’ else we can play for? Got to give you a chance to beat me, after all. I can’t just take all yer money and go away.”

The glare he got was so hot with fury, it might have incinerated a person less invulnerable than Will Tate. But Will merely gazed at Pickering with eyes so wide and pure, Pickering was reduced to uttering incoherent oaths.

Then his curses abated and a crafty expression slid across his handsome face. He began to stroke his upper lip, a sure sign he was thinking evil thoughts. Since, however, he had by now consumed an alarming quantity of hard spirits, his evil thought processes were not as acute as they generally were.

“Well, now, my fine Texas friend, maybe I just do have something more to play with, after all.”

Will’s expression brightened and he managed to look eager, despite the fact that he wanted to go to bed.

“Yes,” Pickering muttered again, making slush of the word. “Maybe I just do.”

With fingers that weren’t quite steady, he reached into his breast pocket. “You have your eyes on our sweet li’l Em’ly, don’ you, Tex?”

It was difficult for Will to curb his initial impulse to snap Pickering’s sincere neck. But he did and felt proud of himself.

“I’m right fond of Miss Emily, you bet,” he managed to respond without even a hint of loathing.

“Well, I can tell you right here an’ now that you aren’t gonna get her, Tex. I can tell you that right now.” Pickering jabbed his forefinger onto the table to emphasize his point. “Y’know why?”

“No. Why?”

“‘Cause I got a lien on ev’ry damn thing those two crazy relatives of hers own, that’s why.”

“No!” Will succeeded in sounding positively shocked at Pickering’s announcement.

“Oh, yes, I do, cowboy. Yes, I do. An’, what I’m gonna do for you right now is, I’m gonna give you a chance to win some of ‘em back.” A chuckle accompanied Pickering’s slurry words as he slapped a fistful of crumpled papers on the table.

Will itched to pick them up and see if they contained the paper consigning Gertrude’s share of the kennel business to Pickering, but he didn’t dare.

He guessed he’d just have to play poker with this idiot for a while longer. Since, however, there were so few people left in the saloon to watch, he decided he didn’t have to be quite so clever about hiding his skill anymore. Pickering was too drunk to notice.

“Well, shucks, Mr. Pickering, I guess that would be all right, then.”

Will gave his enemy what he hoped looked like a stupid smile. He noted with satisfaction that Pickering was still acting sly and superior. Good. That was just the way Will wanted him to feel.

So they played for the notes Pickering held on Gertrude’s house. Although Will didn’t take the time to read the documents with care, he did notice Pickering had loaned the woman a considerable amount of money over the months. All of it was lent upon the security of Gertrude’s furniture, jewels, savings, and so forth. Will felt a knot of anger heat up in his chest and decided it might be fun to win more than Gertrude Schindler’s notes and the kennel from Pickering. He wondered just what else the man might have to stake.

Pickering lost the notes.

“Hell,” he muttered.

The smile Will gave him was so contrite and sweet, Thomas had to visit the bar so he wouldn’t hoot with laughter and give himself away.

“Well, Mr. Pickering, I don’t know what’s goin’ on with me tonight. Can’t seem to lose for the life of me.”

“Hell,” Pickering repeated, his penchant for repartee apparently having deserted him.

“Well, sir, I’m right fond o’ horseflesh. Got yourself a hoss you might want to stake?”

So they played the next game for Pickering’s horse. And they continued to play as the early morning crawled along toward dawn.

# # #

At three o’clock in the morning, when Emily, in her innocence, was absolutely certain nobody else in San Francisco could possibly be awake, she arose from her bed and donned the costume she had purchased at the charity store the prior day.

Peering at her reflection in the scratchy mirror she decided she looked like one of those runners in the court district.

Her assessment was not entirely correct. While Emily was indeed wearing the requisite knickerbockers, flannel shirt and cloth cap, not too many of the youthful runners who scurried hither and yon for the legal population in San Francisco possessed her peaches-and-cream complexion. Nor did they, as a rule, appear quite as tidy as did Emily.

“Suspenders,” she murmured as she stared at her reflection. “They all wear suspenders.”

Since she had not thought to arm herself with suspenders, she tiptoed into her uncle’s dressing room without passing by his sleeping quarters, which she could do without passing by his sleeping.

It took her very little time to discover a pair of striped red suspenders. She decided they would work splendidly for her purpose. With any luck, she’d have them back in her uncle’s drawer before he even realized they were missing. On her way out, she snatched a red kerchief, deciding on the spur of the moment it would add the final, defining touch to her costume.

One last peek into her mirror assured her she looked just fine. No one, she was sure, would mistake her for a female. Perhaps a rather delicate runner, but never a female.

With that encouraging thought, and holding her shoes, which she was sure would clomp hideously, Emily descended the staircase. She slipped out the front door, blessing herself for at last remembering to soap the hinges.

It was dark outside.

“Of course, Emily von Plotz, you silly girl, you knew it was going to be dark,” she chided herself aloud. She didn’t feel quite so alone when she spoke out loud. “There’s no need to be timid. After all, nobody could possibly be awake at this hour.”

Almost immediately the disconcerting thought hit her that she was awake at this hour and, what’s more, she was bent upon theft. Perhaps she might more properly say that no honest, upright folks were awake at this hour. Upon that revealing thought, Emily dashed back into the house and fetched herself a stout knife from the pantry. Thus armed, she felt more secure when she began to stride briskly toward Powell Street and Clarence Pickering’s lodgings.

“Now, whatever you do, Emily von Plotz, don’t panic,” she told herself. “Remember your plan. Jimmy the lock. Sneak into the house. If that awful man in the sling approaches you, splash him in the eye with your witch hazel and then hit him with your rock.”

Emily carried a denim sack with the equipment she felt she might need. She fingered it nervously as she walked, enumerating its contents over and over again in an attempt to allay her fluttering nerves.

“Rock. Witch hazel. Door jimmy.”

The house boy, Chung Li, had let her borrow the jimmy. She hadn’t asked him why he possessed such a tool, and he hadn’t asked her why she needed it. Emily considered their transaction fair on both sides.

“Rope. Hand torch. Matches.” She didn’t know if she would need to use the rope, but she figured it might come in handy if she had to use the rock. “I guess I’m all set.”

On she walked, back straight, gaze sweeping the dark street in front of her, alert to any lurking danger.

She suddenly wished she’d brought Uncle Ludwig’s gun. Emily had no idea how to use a gun but she decided, too late, that it might at least have intimidated anyone who tried to do her mischief.

Fortunately, she encountered no such mischief-makers this morning. A small band of rowdy revelers clung to one another on the corner of Pickering’s street, but they did not disturb her. Perhaps the street-wise swagger she adopted as she strode by them aided her in her deception.

Taking monumental care to be quiet, Emily climbed the steps of Pickering’s building, crept silently to his lodgings and stopped to put her ear to the keyhole. She strained and strained to hear something from inside the rooms, but not a sound could she decipher.

Breathing a heart-felt sigh of relief, she set her bag of tools down on the filthy hall carpet, drew out the jimmy, and set to work. It wasn’t long before she heard the distinctive click for which Chung Li had told her to listen.

Then, pausing only to remove her shoes, Emily slowly pushed the door open, praying it wouldn’t squeak. It didn’t. With her heart slamming against her ribcage so hard she was sure it would wake Clarence Pickering, she crept into the room.

As quietly as she could, Emily sidled across Pickering’s parlor, stepping over the litter of papers, clothes, and sundry other articles strewn about. She wanted to light her little torch, but didn’t dare until she’d ascertained whether or not she had company. As she went from one room to another of the five Pickering rented in the shabby building, she was relieved that no signs of him or Skates were evident.

When she did light her torch fastidious soul was jarred by Pickering’s slovenly housekeeping. “My goodness, what a mess,” she exclaimed as she eyed the formidable clutter of Pickering’s desk. She began rummaging about among the hodgepodge of papers until one caught her eye.

The writing itself was not completely decipherable, but the content was explicit enough for Emily to deduce it was Pickering who had tried to burn her uncle’s kennel and it was he who had arranged for Gustav and Helga’s kidnapping. Although she already guessed he had been behind both ill-fated attempts at her family’s ruin, this concrete proof of his villainy infuriated her.

“The wicked, wicked fiend.”

Then she really dug in. Without even trying to hide the traces of her search, she scoured each sheet for anything at all having to do with her aunt and uncle. A gasp was wrenched from her when she read the beginnings of a letter Pickering had penned to a crony somewhere:

“It won’t be long now,” the missive ran, “before I’ll have little Miss Emily in my bed.” Why the nerve of that evil beast! To think that her aunt had actually trusted him!

Emily’s soul blazed with fury as she ripped through the papers after discovering the letter. And the further she dug, the more evidence of Pickering’s criminal activities she unearthed.

“Well, will you just look at this!”

Shocked, Emily reread the clever forgery of a birth certificate as she held it up to her torch. She knew it was a forgery because she had already seen the sheets and sheets of paper Pickering had practiced on, as well as the obituary notice clipped from the Call which had undoubtedly prompted the piece of subterfuge. She surmised he was going to try to pass himself off as that poor man’s heir.

Never had Emily been exposed to such out-and-out knavery. Until right this minute, she’d never guessed it existed.

She decided then and there that she’d rather be poor and honest than have all the money in the world, if this was how one had to go about it. She was sure, however, that Will Tate hadn’t had to sink to such depths to make his fortune. But that was only one of many differences between him and Clarence Pickering.

That thought acted as a spur to Emily’s industry, and soon papers were flying. There was no organization to Pickering’s criminal activities, but Emily eventually found envelopes filled with her aunt’s underneath betting tickets and on top of pawnshop receipts.

It wasn’t long before she had amassed a tidy bundle of her aunt and uncle’s debts to Clarence Pickering. The size of the bundle alarmed her. She had no idea how deeply Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Ludwig were into this creature’s clutches. “I’m glad I came here tonight.” She said it defiantly, as though she’d been arguing with her conscience about the dubious merits of breaking and entering.

Emily was still ruffling through papers when she heard a key scrape in the lock of Pickering’s front door.

In a panic, her brain considered and discarded options with the speed of light. It was no good hiding behind the tatty drapes, as they weren’t long enough to conceal her feet. She was too big to hide under or behind the sofa. There was no way to get to Pickering’s bedroom and slide under his bed or tuck herself away in his closet. Besides, in the split-second she had to consider her choices, the idea of hiding out in Clarence Pickering’s bedroom sent cold shivers up her spine.

When she heard the front door open and the rumble of male voices came to her through the closed door of Pickering’s office, Emily’s heart nearly leapt out of her mouth. In one desperate movement, she swept up her aunt’s papers, shoved them into her denim sack, blew out her torch, and dove into the kneehole of Pickering’s desk, praying frantically that the men—whoever they were—weren’t headed into this room.

It took all of her control not to burst into hysterical sobs when the office door indeed opened. She heard the clump of booted feet—one set firm, the other hesitant—walk close to the desk under which she cowered.

Then she heard Will Tate’s voice, and she nearly squealed in astonishment.

A million thoughts spun in her brain when he spoke, none of them coherent.

Why was he here? Did he know of her attempt at thievery? Had he discovered Gertrude’s idiocy in giving Pickering the kennel papers? Was he—God forbid—in league with the dastardly man? The last possibility was so distressing, Emily stamped it out as she might a cinder on the rug. Stuffing a fist as far into her mouth as it would fit in order to keep from screaming, she scrunched herself into the corner of the kneehole and listened.

“Well, shucks, Mr. Pickering, I hate to discommode you this way, but you know, my pappy always told me to finish a job before you go to bed at night. Otherwise, it might not get done. Now, I trust you like I trust my own self, you bein’ Miss Emily’s friend and all. But I figgered I’d best get them papers I won off you right now. Don’t want no misunderstandings to rear up in the morning.”

Emily was astonished. Will Tate hadn’t sounded this bumpkinish since she first met him in the park. No. Come to think of it, it was even later than that when he’d begun to sound countrified, after he admitted to being “Texas Lonesome.” As she hid and listened, Emily’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Pickering mumbled, obviously cranky as all get-out as well as very drunk. He took no pains with his delivery now, and he didn’t sound at all sincere, only incredibly mean. “Well, c’mere and I’ll give you the goddamned papers.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Pickering. I appreciate it.” There was no honey on earth sweeter than Will’s voice. “And don’t forget your saddle neither, please, sir.”

Emily couldn’t see the two men, but she heard Pickering’s explicit curse, and her cheeks went hot as she huddled in the shadows. What a terrible man Clarence Pickering was.

Then she thought about the words she had just heard her darling Will utter.

The papers. Now what papers could Pickering possibly have that Will might want? Surely, Will Tate was too good a businessman to have fallen victim to Clarence Pickering. And his saddle? Emily’s confusion was almost as great as her trepidation.

“Well, hell, I know they’re here somewheres.”

Emily could hear Pickering shove papers aside as he searched the desk for whatever it was he wanted.

“Want me to look for you, Mr. Pickering?” Will asked sweetly.

Another curse greeted Will’s suggestion. “You won every goddamned thing I own, damn your soul to hell. I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let you mess with my desk. Goddamned poker-playin’ Texan.”

His words were indistinct, but Emily heard him plainly. He won everything he owned? Will had won everything Mr. Pickering owned? Good gracious. Her own sweet Will Tate, a gambling man? The idea appalled her, and Emily’s heart stopped thundering and sank like lead.

All at once, Will’s patience snapped like a dry twig. He was tired, damn it, and he wanted to go to bed. He had half-carried Pickering over here from Abe Warner’s, with himself and Thomas each propping up a shoulder. Thomas now stood guard outside, just in case Bill Skates or another one of Pickering’s cronies showed up.

“Get the hell out of the way, Pickering,” he commanded. “I’m sick of your drunken fumbling. I’ll find the damned papers myself.”

“No. You get back, you Texas scum.”

Pickering assumed a fighter’s stance, the effect of which was considerably diminished by his unsteady footing. He squealed when Will picked him up by his collar as if he were a mere slight impediment and flung him roughly aside.

“Get out of my way, Pickering. I’m through playing with you. You hurt my Emily, damn your eyes, and you should be grateful all I’m taking is your possessions. I’ll be happy to rid the world of your scummy presence forever if you get in my way again. Now where are the papers Mrs. Schindler gave you when you cheated her out of her share of the kennel?”

“Don’ hurt me. Don’ hurt me.”

Pickering’s words sounded muffled, and Emily wondered why. She had no way of knowing that Will’s powerful thrust had landed him upside-down on the sofa and he was now sniveling through a cushion.

“I’m going to do more than hurt you, you son of a bitch, if you don’t give me those papers right now.”

Goodness gracious, Emily thought, startled by Will’s sudden change in temperament. She certainly hoped she never angered him once they were married. He sounded positively furious.

Then she remembered they couldn’t be married, and a tear slid down her cheek.

As Pickering continued to sniffle and not answer him, Will took two powerful strides toward the sofa. Tired of dallying, he planned to shake Pickering until he either convinced him to hand over the papers or broke his neck.

“No! Don’ hurt me!” Pickering shrieked. “I’ll give ‘em to you. I jus’ can’t find ‘em. Honest.”

“Honest? Don’t make me laugh, you pitiful puddle of tobacco spit. Get up on your two hind legs and give me those papers now.”

“I will. I will.”

Emily could hear assorted scufflings and shufflings as Clarence Pickering stood up. His unsteady, dragging footsteps made their way back to the desk and she heard him begin to shuffle papers again.

“I can’ find ‘em,” he whimpered.

“I want those kennel papers, Pickering, and I’m not going to wait much longer. Either hand them over right now or die.”

The warning sounded ominous even to Emily as she huddled under the desk. Of course, she that Pickering couldn’t find the papers Will wanted because she had them packed away in her sack, but she wasn’t quite sure how to go about announcing her presence. She was sure she looked a sight and wasn’t at all certain she wanted her beloved Will to see her in such a state.

And he was her beloved Will, too. Whatever he was doing with this evil man, it was for her benefit. She knew that from the conversation she’d just overheard.

“I tell you, they’re not here.” A distinctly whiny note had crept into Pickering’s voice. It made Emily wince even as her muscles began to cramp from being squashed under the desk.

“Listen to me, Pickering, and listen well. You damned near ruined the life of the only woman I’ve ever loved. If you don’t give me those papers right now, you’re not going to get the chance to ruin anybody else’s. That’s a promise. You cheated Emily’s aunt and uncle out of damned near everything they owned, and you tried to kill her Uncle Ludwig’s dogs.

“You have no honor, Pickering, no soul, no heart, and no guts. You’re not a man; you’re barely human, and I’m sure the world won’t mourn you. If you aggravate me any more, you’re going straight out that window over there, and I don’t plan to open it first. Either you give me those papers right now, or you’re on your way to hell.”

Will sounded as though he meant it, and Emily’s heart leapt. All this for her. Try as she might to hold them at bay, tears of wonder and happiness began to trickle out of her eyes.

“B-b-but they’re not here,” Pickering wailed. “Here. Here’s the rest of ‘em. Everything I own. Everything. Over there’s my saddle. The horse is in the livery down the street. There’s the receipt. Here’s my money. Every cent I have in the world.”

Although Emily could not see him, Pickering’s fumbling fingers were now turning his pockets inside out as he frantically tried to keep Will Tate from murdering him.

“Where are the papers, God damn it?”

Will’s bellow flung Pickering backwards into a dead faint on the sofa and sent Emily springing out hiding as though she’d been shot from a gun. Sobbing with joy, she flung herself into Will’s astonished arms.

“Will. Oh, Will, darling, how I love you!”

Although Will had been primed for homicide, the now-familiar feeling of Emily’s soft body slamming against him smothered the unworthy impulse in an instant. His arms closed around her and he squeezed with gratitude, even though his brain was rattled at her sudden appearance here, in the very lair of her worst enemy.

“Emily? What on earth are you doing here?” Even as he spoke, he nuzzled her soft cheek, trying to avoid contact with the scratchy wool cap she wore. “What on earth are you wearing?”

Will allowed himself another moment close to her and then gently pried Emily’s arms from his shoulders. He held her a little bit away from him. “What’s the matter, Emily love? Why are you crying?”

“Oh, Will!” was as far as Emily got before she was interrupted by another flood of tears. After she wiped them away with the red kerchief knotted around her neck, she tried again.

“Oh, Will, I found out Aunt Gertrude had given this beastly man her share in the kennel and I came here to steal the papers back again because he wouldn’t give them to me when I asked politely and he wanted me to do despicable things with him.”

“He what?”

Will shoved Emily away and stomped toward the sofa. Murder sounded like the only logical answer now. It sounded too good, in fact.

But Emily thwarted him by the simple expedient of wrapping her arms around him once more. As soon as he felt her firm, perky breasts pressing into his back, Will stopped in mid-stride, even though he was not entirely satisfied at having his plan foiled.

“Please, Emily?”

“You’ll get into trouble, Will, darling. He’s not worth it.”

“But he’s vermin, Emily. People pay a lot of money to have vermin exterminated.”

“I know it, darling, but not everybody feels the same way about vermin people as they do about vermin rodents.”

“But he’s a rodent, too.”

“I know it, Will, but please don’t kill him. For me?”

“Well . . .”

“Please, Will?”

The effect of Emily’s stretching up on her tiptoes, thereby rubbing her plush bosom against him from his waist to his mid-chest, was such that Will decided he didn’t need to kill Pickering after all. At least, not right this minute.

“Oh, God, Emily, I love you.”

And with that, he wrapped her up and kissed her so soundly, neither one of them noticed when Thomas Crandall entered the room.

“Did you find the papers?” he asked before he spotted Will and Emily entwined with one another. When he did, he stopped dead in his tracks and stared, aghast.

“Will Tate, why in God’s name are you kissing that boy?”