City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (34 page)

Goddamn long shot, but at least a plausible-enough suicide until the Reno bulls finished their hand of lowball and decided to earn a paycheck.

Third sheet of tissue.

Her hands moved to Jasper’s jacket, which was gaping open from how he was slumped upright against the couch and table. She gingerly removed a wallet from his inside coat pocket and carefully examined the interior.

About four hundred dollars in fifties and twenties, a driver’s license, a University of California identification card. Clean, neat, and precise, just like the professor. Under the driver’s license, a newer-looking business card, off-white with raised letters in black:

THE DRAKE HOTEL—LAKE SHORE DRIVE, CHICAGO—“THE ARISTOCRAT OF HOTELS”

Edges still sharp. Jasper hadn’t had it for long.

Miranda turned the card over. Blue ink, precise, careful writing: “Clark. 511. 12:30. 30th.”

Miranda carefully slid the card into her own jacket’s outer pocket and realized the killer had taken her Baby Browning, but not the trick cigarette case.

She pulled herself up with the edge of the table, wobbling. Crumpled the used tissue and dropped it in her other pocket.

Checked her watch again: 9:28. About an hour left.

The killer had lowered Jasper’s luggage onto the bottom berth, scattering carefully pressed shirts and trousers. She ran an eye over the contents. He’d already looted anything important.

She straightened up, head a dull, throbbing ache, and using the last three tissues from the bathroom, methodically wiped down the doorknobs, the table, and the mirrored wall vanity, suddenly remembering the straight razor.

She opened the mirror again and dropped the razor in her pocket with the tissues. Needed another weapon, anyway.

Noise from the corridor and the room next door, celebration, high-pitched laughter.

Passengers getting ready for Reno … and the signal for her to go.

*   *   *

She waited, breathing hard, until she couldn’t hear the voices outside. Just the train, smooth and fast, rolling down over rugged landscape on the way to dice games and slot machines, drop a pair of Cs at the Bank Club, women bitter over the lines around their eyes lining up for a saddle lesson by one of the dude ranch dudes, take their minds off the divorce from Henry … all fucking in a fucking day’s work, and she’d helped plenty of them find freedom and a fat alimony check thanks to Nevada divorce laws and the Biggest Little City in the World.

She hoped like hell it was big enough to hide in.

Miranda counted to three and opened the door a crack. No noise, no footsteps, so she squeezed through quickly, patting her pockets to make sure she still had her cigarette case.

She missed the Baby Browning.

Her left hand shook with a spasm, and she shoved it in her jacket pocket, walking as quickly as she could toward the rear of the car.

A portly man in a dark brown derby was walking toward her, probably on the way to the club car for another drink. He grinned, squinting at her, wobbling a little, but managed to hold the door open while she squeezed past.

Open-section sleeping car, loudest part of the train. Harried mothers with hair in curlers were hushing fidgety boys with kazoos, husbands snoring. Single salesmen swigged from flasks, jawing with their buddies and comparing territories, while elderly ladies yanked the curtains together, worried someone would get a peek at their nightclothes.

Miranda hurried through, stumbling once, wondering if the killer was hiding behind one of the pea green curtains.

Portsmouth Square was next, well-bred duplex bedrooms for honeymooners and vacationing bankers, set up and quiet, just large enough for them to hold their own parties. Giggles erupted from number 5, probably a few girls someone smuggled aboard.

One more car, Chinatown, louder and more crowded, sporting roomettes with not-so-thick drapes instead of doors, couples within either together or à la carte on separate bunks, enjoying more privacy than the seats in the front, but not by much, keep your voice down, Clark, didn’t you read the sign? “Quiet is requested for the benefit of those who have retired.” … They’ll hear you all the way down the train …

She braced herself against the side wall, throbbing pain behind the eyes, vision still as wobbly as a two-year-old. Bright lights, red and green like Christmas. Only a few dozen feet from the Twin Peaks car—and her own room. She passed a hand over her forehead. Wished the fucking pain would go away.

He’d be watching her car and her room—not Jasper’s, couldn’t afford to be near Jasper. He was sitting pretty, ready to make a call to the bulls in Reno, report a homicide, suspicious character, wanted for questioning in San Francisco …

Goddamn it.

Her hand trembled again, and she pulled open the cigarette case and stuck a Chesterfield between her lips. What to fucking do …

She thought of Rick suddenly, his laugh, that goddamn half-Irish bullshit accent. How he pushed his fedora off his forehead, how his eyes got bluer when he was on a story.

No Rick. But maybe—just maybe—Tom and Marie O’Day could help her.

*   *   *

Marie opened the door to room D, Twin Peaks, generous mouth slightly agape, eyes as wide as saucers. She was dressed in a red silk robe with embroidered fish, the kind they sold in Chinatown.

“Miss—Miss Corbie?”

Tom appeared over her shoulder wearing a T-shirt and blue flannel pajama bottoms. His voice was clipped.

“Get her in here, Marie—she’s in shock.”

Marie pulled her inside the large compartment, looking up and down the corridor. Guided her to the armchair by the window. The bed was already made up with brown and green wool blankets, and Marie patted her hand. The cigarette was still dangling from Miranda’s mouth.

She looked up at the couple, anxiously peering down at her.

“Got a light?”

Tom picked up an SP matchbook from the table next to the bed, lit the Chesterfield. Miranda gulped it down, shoulders shuddering.

“I’m sorry to involve you, but I need your help.”

Tom spoke to Marie: “I left my clothes in the bathroom.”

Turned back to Miranda, forehead creased and mouth turned downward. “You look like hell—white as a damn ghost. And that”—he pointed to the right sleeve of her dress—“looks like blood.”

Miranda raised her arm, examining the sleeve with a frown. A small red stain spread outward from the pink flowers, purple and almost black against the green fabric.

“That’s because it is. The man I was following has been killed—and I’m being framed for it.”

Marie let out a gasp. Tom nodded, jaw tight.

“You need to get off the train. I’ll change.” He clambered his tall frame into the small toilet room. “Excuse me while I dress.”

Miranda took one last puff on the cigarette, squeezed out the end with her fingers and dropped it into her pocket.

“The killer hit me over the head—I was out for half an hour. We don’t have much time.”

Marie stood up, drawing the robe tighter. “What do you need?”

Goddamn it. These were fine people, young, in love, made for each other …

She ran a hand over her forehead, winced. Still clammy.

“I’m sorry, Marie. I need to make my way back to San Francisco without being stopped. I need a change of clothes and a bag for this dress. It’s evidence on my side—no splatter, just a soaked-in bloodstain from examining the wound.”

Marie nodded. “I’m a good three inches shorter than you, but as soon as Tom gets out, he’ll lift down the trunk and you’re welcome to whatever I have.”

“Tom is going to do what?” The tall, lanky young man emerged from behind Marie, where he’d hurriedly thrown on clothes over his pajamas, cinching his belt. “Oh, get down the trunk. Of course.”

“Wait.” Miranda held out a hand, palm down, to stop him. “You haven’t asked me details and I can’t give you any. This is dangerous. The killer is still on the train.”

Tom bent down, peering into her face. “She’s got a concussion, Marie. Find my flask—it’s gin, not whiskey, but it’ll help.”

He lowered the trunk from the upper rack to the bed while Marie opened a drawer underneath the vanity mirror.

“Portland’s dangerous, too, Miss Corbie. Danger is everywhere in this crazy, lopsided world. So save your breath and tell us what you need and what we should do.”

Marie extended the silver flask to Miranda with a smile. She took it gratefully, feeling the heat of the alcohol course through her neck and back, giving strength to her arms and legs. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, handed the flask back to Marie.

“I’ve got to disappear in Reno. Can’t let the bulls find any trace of me, including my luggage. Collect it and deposit it at the Reno train station under the name ‘Marion Gouchard.’ Here’s the key to my room. It’s at the front of this car, bedroom A. I’ll need my handbag before I leave.”

She pulled the key out of her left pocket and set it down on the ledge of the bed. Tom picked it up quickly and shoved it into his trousers.

Marie lifted up a pretty brown dress with cream dots. “Will this do?”

Miranda bit her lip, closing her eyes briefly. Head hurt like hell.

“Got a better idea. Tom, can you find the porter named George? He’s the shoeshine this trip. Slip him two fins.” She pulled out the wallet from her pocket. “Lucky I brought this and my cigarette case with me. The killer stole my gun.” She peeled out four twenties. “I’ll add to that when I can.”

Tom shook his head. “Uh-uh, nothing doing, Miss Corbie. Marie and I, we figure whoever you were chasing was a bad hombre. Whoever killed him is the same, or maybe even worse. I told you the first time—we’re glad to help.”

She smiled slightly. “Take the money, Tom. Consider it part of a wedding present.”

He grumbled under his breath, his shirt still askew from dressing hastily. But he folded the cash, crammed it into his pocket.

“What do I say to George when I find him?”

“Tell him the lady who tried to help Isaiah needs some help—a porter suit and cap, the smallest they’ve got.”

“Is that it?”

“Thank him for me and tell him I’ll send him more thanks as soon as I can.”

Tom nodded, shoving his fedora on his head and giving Marie a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m on the way for your handbag and the uniform.”

They watched him squeeze through the small door. Marie shut it carefully behind him, letting out a deep breath. She turned to eye Miranda critically, gaze traveling up and down.

“If you’re going to pass as a man, Miss Corbie … we’ve got some work to do.”

Thirty

Miranda plucked at the tight cloth bandage around her breasts, studying herself in the long, narrow mirror fastened on the inside of the bathroom door. She frowned.

“Still too much of a bump, but I figure the uniform will be big enough to hide it. I can pick up another bandage at a Reno drugstore.”

Marie stepped back, voice doubtful. “I don’t know, Miss Corbie, your shape is awful … womanly.”

Miranda’s mouth twisted in half a grin. “Thanks. I’ll slouch a lot. Does Tom have a T-shirt I can use?”

“Sure. He always wears them, even in the summer.”

The young woman turned to the suitcase on the bed, rummaging through white socks and thermal underwear before finding a V-neck T-shirt.

“Here you go, Miss Corbie.”

“Please—call me Miranda. Formalities seem a little strange when I’m wearing your husband’s clothes.”

Marie laughed, seemed grateful for the release of nerves. The T-shirt was thick cotton. Miranda pulled it down over the tight wrapping, hunching her shoulders forward in a slouch and studying the effect.

“It’ll do. Thank God you thought of the train first-aid kit, though if you run into that Southern Pacific nurse again, you’d better limp.”

Marie’s wide mouth curved into a smile. “I don’t mind. I did a bit of acting in my high school.”

A loud thump on the door made both women jump. Miranda darted into the bathroom.

Marie squared her shoulders and opened the door a crack. Tom pushed his way in with his foot, carrying a Southern Pacific laundry bag in both arms, fedora low over his eyes. Marie slammed the door shut quickly, pressing her back against it with her hand on her heart.

“Sorry, honey, couldn’t knock and didn’t want to talk. Where’s Miss Corbie?”

Miranda pushed the handle and opened the bathroom door enough to be heard. Spoke softly. “I’m in here. You find George?”

Tom lowered the bundle of clothes on the bed, along with Miranda’s handbag and a pair of men’s work boots.

“I don’t know what you ever did for George, Miss Corbie, but he caught on right away, no questions. He’s the one who thought of the shoes, I didn’t. He even looked at me sideways and said if a party ever wanted to leave the car a little early so as not to have their exit noticed, that party should go to the observation car about ten minutes beforehand and wait for a signal. He said we’re due into Reno early, about ten-fifteen.”

Marie was holding up the clothes, frowning. “The legs are still too long. I can hem them real fast.”

Miranda glanced at her watch: 9:47. “Can you hem them in ten minutes, Marie?”

Scuffling, a couple of cases opening, and a playful thwack of hand on flesh and mild protestations from Marie followed Miranda’s question, while Tom’s voice rose above it to respond. “She’s the best damn little seamstress in Portland—though that’s not why I married her.”

More whispers from Marie, and Miranda smiled, remembering this was their honeymoon. Goddamn it, if something happened to Tom or Marie …

“Got a robe I could wear? It’s a little cramped in here.”

“Of course, Miss—Miranda. Tom, give her yours, it’s thick enough.”

His long arm reached out in front of the bathroom door, holding a brown flannel robe. Miranda grabbed it, wrapping it around herself before stepping into the main room. Tom was stroking Marie’s hair with one hand, his other hand holding her waist while she frantically ran a thread through the cuffs of the thick uniform. Tom looked up at Miranda and moved aside.

“Got the whole outfit right here. Shirt, pants, vest, jacket, suspenders, cap, even the tie. It’ll be slow going in the shoes—the smallest size George could find was a seven. He shook his head over the idea of a porter’s uniform, said it wouldn’t work, and by hook or by crook, came up with this.”