The Loner: Crossfire tl-11 Read online

  “I ... I don’t want to go,” Connie said. “I want to stay with Mr. Browning.”

  “You can’t do that,” Conrad told her. “I have places to go.”

  She pouted. “And I won’t fit in there, will I?”

  “It’s not that. It might be dangerous for you. Lannigan will be there, and if he sees you with Frank and me, he’d likely think you’d betrayed him. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  The way she paled at the thought gave Conrad his answer.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “If you think it’ll be safe for me to go with this Wrong Duck.”

  “That’s Wong Duck,” Ling Yuan said in a stiff voice.

  Conrad smiled. “I think the lady knows that.” He took Connie’s hand. “Thank you for helping me. Maybe I’ll see you again later on.”

  “I hope so.” She sounded like she meant it.

  Ling Yuan ushered her out of the room. Conrad stripped off his filthy clothes and put on the clean white shirt, the black trousers, the vest, and the black coat. He tied the silk cravat he found in the breast pocket of the jacket and fastened it down with an ivory-headed stick pin.

  Ling Yuan came back and handed him a small revolver that Conrad recognized as the Smith & Wesson .38 he had bought a couple days earlier.

  “I found it on the docks last night where Lannigan’s men captured you,” the big hatchet man explained. “You must have lost it during the struggle.”

  Conrad checked the loads in the gun, then slipped it into his waistband where the suit coat would conceal it. “Much obliged. I’d lost track of it. All I knew was that I didn’t have it anymore.”

  He ignored the dull headache he still had as Ling Yuan took him back to Diamond Jack’s office. Stopping just inside the door, Conrad gave a surprised grunt when he saw his father wearing a suit every bit as elegant and expensive as the one he wore. “Never thought I’d see you decked out like that, Frank.”

  “Never thought anybody would ever catch me in one of these monkey suits, either. But Jack pointed out we might not get into that mansion where the party’s going on if we showed up looking like we did. It’s bad enough that face of yours looks like you’ve gone fifteen rounds with Gentleman Jim Corbett.”

  “Did you ever see Corbett fight?” Diamond Jack asked with interest from behind the desk.

  Frank smiled and nodded. “Shoot, I was even the referee at one bout ... but that’s a long story and we don’t have time for it right now.”

  “That’s right,” Conrad said. “We need to get to Madison Kimball’s house. There’s no way of knowing for sure how long Lannigan will be there.”

  “I have a carriage waiting for you,” Diamond Jack said. “Don’t worry, the driver is white, so he won’t look out of place. I have a few of your people working for me, for situations such as this. Money, I’ve found, has no color other than green.”

  Conrad nodded. “We appreciate all your help.”

  “Remember ... should Dex Lannigan not survive this night, I would feel the spirits of my ancestors smiling upon me.”

  “I can’t guarantee that,” Conrad said, “but if Lannigan doesn’t tell me what I want to know, there’s a good chance those ancestors of yours will be grinning before the night is over.”

  Chapter 26

  The big house on Nob Hill, one of many in the exclusive neighborhood, was lit up brilliantly. Dozens of carriages and buggies gleaming with expensive brasswork sat parked in the curving driveway running in front of the porticoed entranceway. Conrad had been to many places like that. He had been a fixture at the lush, lavish parties given by his mother and also at the parties thrown by her millionaire friends.

  Looking at the Kimball mansion as he and Frank swung down from the carriage Diamond Jack had provided, Conrad was struck by the thought that normally he would have preferred to be in the high country somewhere, watching an eagle wheel through the blue sky, or out in the lonely vastness of the desert where a man could truly find peace. That realization brought home to him exactly how much he had changed over the past few years.

  But the man who might be able to tell him where to find his missing children was inside the mansion, so at that precise moment in time, there was nowhere else he would rather be.

  Frank tugged at his cravat and sighed. “I don’t see how some fellas wear these dadgum things all the time. Feels like somebody’s about to slip a black hood over my head and drop me through a trapdoor in a gallows floor.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Conrad said. “And stop pulling at it. We’re supposed to look like we belong here, remember?”

  Frank stopped fidgeting with his cravat and patted the slight bulge under the jacket at his waist. That prompted Conrad to touch the .38 tucked away in his waistband, even though he could feel the weight of the gun. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Let’s go.”

  They walked to the door, where a man in butler’s livery stopped them. “I need to see your invitation, sir,” he told Conrad.

  The invitation was still in his suite at the Palace Hotel, Conrad realized. He hadn’t thought to retrieve it. “I’m afraid I don’t have it with me,” he said easily, “but if you have a list of invited guests, I’ll be on it. Conrad Browning.”

  “And how might I be certain you are indeed who you say you are, sir?” the butler asked with a trace of a sneer on his face.

  Conrad reined in the annoyance he felt at the man’s attitude. Considering his battered, beardstubbled appearance, he supposed he couldn’t blame the butler for being suspicious of him.

  “Why don’t you check with Mr. or Mrs. Kimball?” he suggested. “Both of them are personally acquainted with me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t think of disturbing them while they’re occupied with their guests.”

  Conrad was torn between the urge to punch the stuffed shirt in the face and the impulse to pull out his gun and force his way in. Thankfully, he didn’t have to do either of those things. At that moment, a familiar husky voice called, “Conrad! There you are. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.”

  He looked past the butler and saw Francis Carlyle coming toward him. The newspaper columnist was quite attractive in a dark green gown that set off her eyes. Conrad wasn’t surprised to see her there. Despite having a job, Mrs. Carlyle was still a member of the society circles about which she wrote for the Chronicle. Of course the Kimballs had invited her so they could get a favorable writeup in the paper.

  Conrad smiled. “Hello, Francis.”

  The butler turned to her. “Do you know this man, Mrs. Carlyle?”

  “Of course I do. He’s Conrad Browning.” Mrs. Carlyle slapped the butler on the arm. “Now get out of the way and let him and his friend in.”

  The servant rolled his eyes, but he moved aside. Conrad and Frank walked into a foyer with a beautiful parquet floor.

  Mrs. Carlyle looked Frank up and down with obvious interest. “Who’s this?”

  Frank glanced at Conrad, who thought he saw a hint of desperation in his father’s eyes. Even given the seriousness of the situation, Conrad had to suppress a chuckle. “This is Frank Morgan. An old friend of mine.”

  “Not that old.” Mrs. Carlyle took Frank’s hand. “Morgan, Morgan ... There’s something familiar about that name. You’re not related to J.P. Morgan, are you?”

  “Not that I know of,” Frank said.

  “Well, it’ll come to me.” She moved between Conrad and Frank and linked arms with both. “Come with me. I’ll show you around. You’ve been here before, of course, Conrad, but it’s been a while.”

  “Yes, it has.” He lowered his voice as they moved into a huge, fancy ballroom filled with men in sober suits and women in glittering gowns. “You remember that I’m here to see Dex Lannigan.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Carlyle replied. Still smiling, she nodded to partygoers they passed. “I’m taking you to him. By the way, what happened to your face? You look like you got caught in a threshing machin
e.” The reference was a reminder of her humble beginnings.

  Conrad said, “It’s a long story, and I’ll make sure you and Jessup Nash get all the details later.”

  “If you decide to leave Nash out of it, I won’t argue with you.” Before Conrad could respond to that, Mrs. Carlyle stopped and nodded her head. “Over there, under that big painting of Madison and Roberta ... that’s Lannigan and his wife Winifred.”

  Conrad tried not to be too obvious about staring at him. The man was tall and rather rawboned, with an angular face and white hair that was somewhat premature for his age, which Conrad put around forty. The woman standing next to him, smiling radiantly in a light blue gown, was about ten years younger, with a pile of lustrous black curls on her head and a richly curved body that filled out her gown nicely. She was pretty rather than beautiful and had a sweet look about her face. She didn’t strike Conrad as the sort who would be married to a powerful criminal ... but he supposed there was no particular type for doing such a thing.

  Lannigan was talking to several well-dressed men while his wife stood by smiling pleasantly. Conrad kept drawing his eyes back to her for some reason. Leaning closer to Francis Carlyle he asked, “Lannigan’s wife’s name is Winifred, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was he already married to her when he bought the Golden Gate and started working his way into San Francisco society?”

  “Why, I don’t really know. I might be able to find out for you.”

  Conrad nodded. “If you could do that, I’d appreciate it.” He wasn’t sure why he was so curious about Winifred Lannigan, but he had learned to follow his hunches.

  “Why don’t you and Mr. Morgan wait over there for a few minutes?” Mrs. Carlyle suggested, pointing to a small alcove. “I’m assuming you don’t want to talk to Lannigan just yet?”

  “That’s right.”

  On the way from the crowded ballroom, Conrad snagged a couple glasses of champagne from a passing waiter who carried a tray full of them. Frank took the delicately stemmed glass Conrad handed him and frowned. “I never cared much for this fizzy water.”

  “Just sip it. We’ll look more out of place if we’re not drinking, and we already look odd enough, what with my battered face and your obvious hatred of that suit and cravat.”

  Already Conrad had spotted quite a few people who looked familiar to him, even though he didn’t remember their names. Some might remember him, though, so he avoided conversation by stepping into the alcove.

  He didn’t want word spreading that Conrad Browning was in attendance. That news might make its way to Lannigan’s ear, and Conrad didn’t want to ruin the surprise fate held in store for the saloon owner.

  While Frank sipped his champagne, Conrad used the glass to help shield the bruises and scrapes on his face from view. He looked around for Francis Carlyle, but the woman had disappeared into the crowd.

  “Conrad? Conrad Browning, is that you?” another woman’s voice asked.

  Conrad had no choice but to look over and smile at Roberta Kimball, the hostess of the night’s affair. She was an elegantly beautiful middle-aged woman with honey-colored hair only lightly touched with gray. She gasped quietly as she got a better look at Conrad’s face. “Dear Lord, what happened to you?”

  “Just some unpleasant business that has no bearing on this party,” Conrad lied. He leaned closer and kissed Mrs. Kimball on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  “And you, too, of course. When Francis Carlyle told me you were in town, I knew I had to have you here so all your old friends could see you again. Oh, Conrad, I’m so sorry—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “I know. I appreciate that, Roberta.”

  “After the tragedy, you should have come back here. We would have taken care of you.”

  Conrad nodded. “I thought it best to keep busy.”

  In his case, keeping busy had meant tracking down the men who had kidnapped and murdered Rebel and finding out the truth from them, the truth that ultimately had led him to Pamela Tarleton. He had kept busy, all right ... busy killing.

  “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with this gentleman,” Roberta said as she turned to Frank.

  “Allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Frank Morgan. I hope it’s all right I brought him along this evening. Frank, this is Mrs. Kimball, our hostess.”

  “I’m mighty pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Frank said with a polite nod.

  “Of course it’s all right, Conrad. Mr. Morgan, please make yourself at home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Much obliged.”

  She frowned slightly, as if his manner puzzled her, but before she could say anything else, Francis Carlyle reappeared. “Roberta, you simply must go set Madison straight. He insists it was two years ago you made that voyage to Hawaii, instead of three.”

  Mrs. Kimball shook her head. “I swear, poor Madison is getting so forgetful. Excuse me, Conrad, Mr. Morgan. Please, enjoy the party.”

  “We will,” Conrad told her.

  Once Mrs. Kimball had moved away into the crowd, Francis Carlyle said quietly, “I found out what you wanted to know, Conrad. Lannigan and his wife were married shortly after he bought the Golden Gate. She’s a widow from somewhere back east.”

  “She doesn’t hardly look old enough to be a widow,” Conrad said.

  “Widowhood can happen any time. In her case, she didn’t just get a husband, she got a new father for her children.”

  “Children?” Conrad repeated. A hollow feeling suddenly spread through his stomach.

  “That’s right. She has two. They were babies at the time, actually, so it must not have been very long since her husband passed away.”

  “Two ... children.” Conrad’s voice sounded strange in his ears, muffled by the sudden pounding of his pulse inside his head.

  “That’s right. A boy and a girl.” Francis Carlyle paused. “Someone told me they’re twins.”

  Chapter 27

  Frank’s hand closed around Conrad’s arm to steady him. “Are you all right, son?”

  “Son?” Mrs. Carlyle repeated.

  Conrad had never been the sort who would pass out at unexpected news, but for a second the ballroom had spun crazily around him. No, not just the ballroom, he thought. The whole world had tilted off its axis and was turning the wrong way.

  His children—his children!—had spent the past three years living with a vicious criminal. Conrad had thought all along Pamela had hidden the twins. But she hadn’t. She had merely disguised them as the children of that woman Winifred, that supposed “widow” from back east. Conrad had no doubt she was actually the nurse who had accompanied Pamela and the twins from Boston. She had been paid off to marry Lannigan and pretend to be the children’s mother. Everything was shockingly clear.

  “My God, Conrad, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mrs. Carlyle said. “What’s going on here? What’s so special about the Lannigan twins?”

  “They’ve taken his name?” Conrad grated.

  “That’s right. I think he legally adopted them.”

  Conrad dragged in a deep breath and forced himself to steady his nerves. “Thank you, Mrs. Carlyle. You’ve been a big help to me.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t get off that easily. I want answers, Conrad, and I want them now.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. He pulled his arm loose from Frank’s grip and started across the room toward Lannigan. Behind him, he heard Mrs. Carlyle ask Frank what in the world was going on, but Frank didn’t answer. He maneuvered through the crowd after Conrad.

  Spooked by the look on Conrad’s face people stepped out of his way, opening a lane across the big room that led straight to Dex Lannigan. Conversations died away and a strained silence spread in Conrad’s wake. He saw Lannigan look up and recognize him. Stunned surprise settled over the man’s face.

  It didn’t last long. Lannigan hadn’t risen to power by being easily startled. His expression hardened as he put a hand on his wi
fe’s shoulder and moved her behind him so he stood between her and Conrad. Conrad had to give the man credit for trying to protect the woman he was married to, even though she was a lying, mercenary bitch.

  All eyes in the room were on them when Conrad stopped about four feet from Lannigan. “You know why I’m here.”

  Lannigan tried to act ignorant. “I do? I don’t even know who you are, friend, let alone what you want. You look like you’ve been through the wringer, though. How about a drink?”

  “I want my children,” Conrad said.

  That brought a tiny whimper from the woman behind Lannigan. The saloon owner’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

  “My children,” Conrad repeated. “The twins. Frank and Vivian. Pamela Tarleton stole them from me and gave them to you.”

  Lannigan tried to remain calm and suave, but the man’s control was developing cracks. Conrad was barely able to keep his own emotions in check.

  “It’s true that my wife and I are the proud parents of twins, but they’re not yours,” Lannigan forced out. “And they’re not named Frank and Vivian. Their names are David and Rachel.”

  “And you’re their father?” Conrad snapped.

  Everyone in the room was hanging on every word.

  Lannigan managed to smile. “Well, actually ... no. My wife’s first husband ... her late husband ... fathered them. But I love them and feel like they’re mine, so I’ve adopted them. They are mine.”

  It was all Conrad could do not to pull the Smith & Wesson and put a .38 slug between the man’s eyes. Forcing himself to stay calm, he shook his head.

  “They’re not yours, and they’re not hers. I’m their father, and Pamela Tarleton was their mother.”

  That brought some gasps of surprise from the crowd. Many of the people knew what had happened between Conrad and Pamela, even if they’d never met her. The grapevine of high-society gossip extended from coast to coast.

  Conrad’s words also brought an anguished cry from Winifred Lannigan. “No!” She stepped around her husband. “Stop that!” she shouted at Conrad. “Stop saying that! David and Rachel are mine! Don’t you think I know whether or not I gave birth to my own children?”