The Dublin Detective

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Clint had been hoping to talk the sailors out of killing McBeth, but that wasn't going to happen. As one gunman turned on him, he drew and fired one shot. Clint hit the man dead center, drove him back off the dock and into the water with a splash. Then Clint turned his attention to the other three men, who had charged at their target, and he could tell by the way they held their knives that they were not experienced knife fighters.

McBeth dropped to the ground and managed to trip up two of the men. They went sprawling. McBeth disarmed the third man, then deposited him into the water. McBeth turned as one of the other men was getting up. They faced each other, each holding a knife. Then the sailor—not liking the new one-to-one odds—jumped back and ran away.

Clint approached McBeth. “You need one of them to tell you who hired them?” Clint asked.

“No,” McBeth said, picking up his bag. “It was the captain of this ship. He was a friend of mine.”

“Was?”

“Well, he tried to have me killed,” McBeth said. “I think the friendship is over . . .”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

THE DUBLIN DETECTIVE

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / May 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-03270-1

 

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James McBeth stared down at the docks from the deck of the
Dublin Queen
. He stretched, trying to dispel the kink in his lower back.

“What'dja expect,” asked Captain Angus O'Callaghan. “I tol' ya we wasn't a passenger ship.”

McBeth looked at his friend and said, “I got just what I expected, you old pirate.”

He'd had to find himself a corner in the ship's hold to sleep in. It was cramped and damp, and if a kink in his back was the worst he'd have to deal with, he'd take it. He could have gotten pneumonia, scurvy or worse.

“Ya better get you off this ship if you wan'ta get a room,” the captain said. “My men already know all the good places.”

“After the hold of your ship, anything will suffice,” McBeth said.

“
Suffice
,” O'Callaghan said. “If I was you, boyo, I'd watch meself wit' them ten-dollar words ya like ta use. The Barbary Coast ain't the place for them.”

“I'll keep it in mind, Angus.”

They continued to watch as most of the crew disembarked.

“He's got a week's head start on you, McBeth,” O'Callaghan said. “What makes you think you can find him . . . out there?”

“It's what I do, Angus,” McBeth said. “I'm a hunter of men, remember?”

“In our country, yes,” the ship captain said. “But here?”

McBeth looked at O'Callaghan.

“Anywhere, Angus,” he said. “It doesn't matter where. It's who I am.”

“All right,” O'Callaghan said. “We'll be here for four days, if you want to head back.”

“I'm good,” McBeth said with a grin, “but I don't think I'll find him that quickly.”

“What if he's left San Francisco?”

“I already expect that he's left San Francisco,” McBeth said. “He knows I'm after him. He'll go east, into this country's wilderness.”

“Not so much of a wilderness anymore, as I hear,” O'Callaghan said.

“Perhaps not.”

“You'll have to be armed.”

McBeth pulled aside his jacket to show the gun in his belt. It was German.

“You'll need better than that.”

“I will get it,” McBeth said.

“Well, then, I guess all that is left is for me to wish you luck, my friend.”

McBeth turned and accepted O'Callaghan's hand.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Be careful.”

“That's not how I do what I do,” McBeth said, “but thanks for the sentiment.”

McBeth walked to the gangplank, waited his turn to walk down. He hefted the bag on his back, which held only meager belongings. He would have to outfit himself, and he had planned in advance so that he had American money on him.

When he reached the dock he turned and looked up at O'Callaghan, who lifted his arm and waved. For McBeth, it was a friend waving good-bye to another friend—and perhaps it was, but it was not the kind of good-bye McBeth thought it was.

McBeth turned back around and looked ahead on the gangplank just in time to see the four men disembarking in front of him suddenly pivot and begin to rush him.

 

From the deck of the ship Captain Angus O'Callaghan watched the four men converge on McBeth. It hadn't been an easy thing for him to do, but he'd been paid a lot of money to make it look like McBeth had been killed on American soil during a robbery. That was why he hadn't had him killed on his ship.

O'Callaghan had known McBeth for a long time, so he couldn't watch the attack. He turned and walked away.

 

McBeth dropped the bag from his back. The four men faced him, one pointing a gun at the Irishman.

“Drop yer weapon,” the gunman said.

The other three had knives. It was plain to McBeth that was the way they intended to kill him. They didn't want to shoot him, they wanted to make it look like he'd been knifed the minute he stepped off the boat.

“If I drop my gun, you'll kill me,” McBeth replied.

“If you don't, we'll kill ye anyway,” the man holding the gun said. “If ye drop yer gun, ye've got a fightin' chance at least.”

McBeth thought about that for all of a second, and it actually made sense. If he tried to draw his gun, he might get one of them, but they'd surely kill him. If he dropped the weapon, they'd come at him with their knives. At least that way he'd have that fighting chance.

“Okay,” he said.

“Take it out with two fingers,” the man said. “Carefully now.”