Music floated across the street, giving the cool, fall air a feeling of celebration. But no celebration rang in Dixon’s heart. He stood by the door of the boardinghouse, tingling from the rush of blood in his veins and waiting for an answer to his knock.
None came.
He twirled his Stetson on his finger and watched the restaurant. Black shadows of human forms moved across the windows. A round of laughter followed by a lull, and then a tenor voice singing a sweet melody, ensured him that the crowd would remain inside, at least for a few minutes. It looked like a full house tonight. Likely, that was where Mrs. Richard was—why she wasn’t answering his knock. The widow rarely left her house, but if there were things happening worth gossiping about, she’d be at the restaurant to gather her next week’s rumor-mill fodder.
Quite different from Mrs. Clumpit, a woman of integrity and selflessness.
But tonight he was on a mission and he needed to focus. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Mrs. Richard?” He stuck his head through the door.
No one answered.
“Mrs. Richard, I hate to bother you, but do you mind if I come in?”
No one answered.
He stepped into the dark room, and his gut knotted. Red coals glowed from the fireplace to his left. She hadn’t been in for a while or there would be more than coals burning. He picked up a candle off the mantel and lit it. The single flame waved its influence over the cozy contents of the room. Entering a private home without permission went against his training and his personal moral code. Usually, people were willing enough to let him seek out the information he needed.
Then again, when was the last time a criminal mastermind came to Surbank, Alberta?
He stepped toward the stairwell.
Yesterday, he had sent for a warrant. But if he waited the week for it to arrive, Abbadon may well be gone. If he could prove that Abbadon had something to do with Rupert Black’s death—he placed his boot on the bottom step—if he could prove that Abbadon started the fire that burned down the Black’s farm, he could justify the search—at least in his own mind.
His other boot rose to the next stair. The floral carpet beneath his feet muffled his next steps and led the way down the hall to the guest room. Mrs. Richard had two boarders besides Abbadon. One left yesterday for a business trip to Banff. The other traveled to Calgary to meet relatives.
Dixon tapped on the first door as he walked by, and then on the second. The third door had to be Abbadon’s.
The candlelight revealed a dull gray door surrounded by a white doorframe. A small clump of clay rested against the threshold.
He knelt to examine it. Too much time had passed since the fire to determine if it had anything to do with the case. However, the clay did suggest that Abbadon had been walking on something other than wood floors and plank sidewalks. Sand and gravel made up the streets of Surbank, and the soil in town was black loam, not clay.
There was no way to determine when the clay appeared. Mrs. Richard was known to run a clean establishment, so likely this clump appeared sometime today.
He stood and clasped the door knob. It turned.
Dixon raised his eyebrows. He thought for sure Abbadon would lock his door. Perhaps the man was getting cocky.
Music, though faint, drifted from the restaurant. There might be enough time to discover some evidence before Abbadon returned.
He stepped through the door and picked up on the scent of kerosene. A lamp stood in the corner. Would be natural to have a kerosene lamp, but it does prove the man had access to what started the fire.
So would almost every person in the community.
The room was sparsely furnished. Under the window stood a single bed with no head rail or end. Just a mattress on a basic wooden box. Beside it, a small end table held the kerosene lamp and a leather bound book. He’d look at that in a moment. On the west wall, a basin, pitcher, and towels sat upon a long, narrow table. Beneath the table stood a pair of boots.
Dixon lowered the candle. The light flashed against silver tips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tip he found by the burned remains of the Black’s house. His fingers ran over the engraving. The tip in his hand matched the ones on the boots. But each boot had a tip.
He picked up one boot. It was newly polished. He bent the toe to see if there was evidence of the tip being replaced. Grains of dirt had slipped between the tip and the seam to the boot’s sole. Clay to be precise. Clay like that near the Blacks’ house. But that didn’t prove anything.
He picked up the other boot. It, too, had been freshly polished. Some of the polish smeared on his hand. A mark in the leather near the flat end of the tip could indicate that this wasn’t the original. He turned the boot on its edge. No dirt and no scratches. This tip looked brand new. An exact match to the one he’d found at the Blacks’.
His pulse quickened. He set the boot down and straightened. This was the first bit of evidence linking Abbadon with the fire. Not enough to convict him but still …
A creaking sound came from downstairs. The front door must have been opened. Voices with no distinguishable words floated up the stairs. Dixon needed to get out. He could just walk down the stairs, but then there would be questions. Was he prepared to answer them?
“Mrs. Richard, I have reason to believe my work here is nearly completed.” Abbadon must be standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Dixon tiptoed to the window and pushed it up. He’d rather not have to explain his presence.
A quick glance to the door. He’d better hurry.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Dixon lifted his leg through the window. He grimaced at the ground below the window. If he wasn’t careful a fall would break his leg.
He rested his foot on the shutter of the first-story window.
Footsteps came down the hall.
Taking a deep breath, he swung his other leg out the window. With fingernails curled into the window ledge, he scooted outside, precariously standing on the window box, and then he slid the window shut. His muscles shook as he lowered himself down and clung to the edge of the window box. Soil pushed into his fingernails and the scent of pansies tickled his nose.
He glanced down at the dry ground beneath him. The muscles in his fingers screamed for relief. He’d have to drop and roll.
The door to the room opened.
He let go and rolled into a ball. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs when he hit the ground, and he scrambled to hedge’s cover. If fate be with him, no one saw him.
His stomach knotted.