The Loner: Trail Of Blood Read online

  “I have contacts in most of the hospitals in the city. Pamela Tarleton wasn’t admitted to any of them in the past four years, at least not under her own name.”

  Conrad shook his head. “I expected that. I’ve believed all along that she gave birth in a private hospital or sanitarium.”

  Mallory took the cup from Arturo and nodded his thanks. “Here’s the thing. Some of the nurses I know have also worked for doctors in private hospitals. I was able to spread the word, including Miss Tarleton’s description, and I found a girl who remembers a patient who might have been her.”

  Conrad came to his feet. “That was fast work.”

  “I haven’t determined yet if the patient actually was Miss Tarleton,” Mallory said with a shrug. “I can continue to investigate, but I’m not sure how far I’ll get. The doctor who runs this place has a lot of rich patients, so I’m sure he’s in the habit of being discreet. He’s not going to want to talk to a detective.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Vernon Futrelle.”

  The name was familiar to Conrad. Dr. Futrelle operated a sanitarium across the river in Cambridge that catered to the wealthy and powerful members of Boston’s elite. It was just the sort of place where a woman such as Pamela, who found herself with child and without a husband, could go to give birth without anyone knowing about it. Conrad suspected that plenty of daughters from rich families had done exactly that. It was easier than sailing off to Europe for a year, another time-honored method of dealing with that particular problem. Futrelle also numbered among his patients women who were too fond of alcohol or opium, things like that.

  Mallory was right about one thing: Dr. Futrelle would never reveal his patients’ secrets willingly. Discretion was as important as his medical skill, if not more so.

  He might be more inclined to talk to a member of Boston society, however.

  “Tell me what else you know,” Conrad said as a plan began to formulate in his mind. “When was this mysterious patient who might have been Miss Tarleton at Dr. Futrelle’s sanitarium?”

  Mallory shook his head. “The girl I talked to couldn’t remember for sure. Somewhere between three and four years ago. That was as much as she could narrow it down.”

  “How long was she there?”

  “Several months. She had a private suite, of course. Her and the maid she brought with her.”

  “Maid?”

  “Yeah, she had a servant with her.”

  “Did the nurse you talked to remember anything about the maid?” Conrad thought it might be productive to track the woman down.

  But Mallory shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. Who pays attention to servants?”

  Unfortunately, that was true. Pamela and her father had had numerous servants working for them, and despite the fact that Conrad had been in the Tarleton house a great deal while he and Pamela were engaged, he couldn’t remember any of them. Of course, he had been a pompous jackass back then, he reminded himself.

  “All right. That’s good work, Mr. Mallory. Excellent work. I’ll speak to Dr. Futrelle myself and see if I can find out anything.”

  “That might be your best bet,” Mallory agreed.

  “Do you have anything else to report?”

  “No, that’s all I’ve learned so far. You want me to continue with the investigation?”

  “Of course. This business with Dr. Futrelle might not pan out at all.” Conrad paused. “There’s something else I’d like to ask you. Are you familiar with a man named Eddie Murtagh?”

  Mallory’s bushy red brows drew down in a puzzled frown. “Murtagh’s the leader of one of the gangs you can find in the worst part of town. He’s a killer, even though the law’s never been able to get anything on him. Everybody in that neighborhood is too scared of him to ever testify against him. Why do you want to know about Eddie Murtagh?”

  “I understand he can be found at a tavern called Serrano’s. I’ll go see Dr. Futrelle this afternoon, but I thought I might pay Murtagh a visit tonight.”

  Mallory grimaced. “No offense, Mr. Browning, but that’s a crazy idea.”

  “I expressed the same opinion,” Arturo put in. “Although in more civilized terms.”

  “Why do you want to get yourself killed poking around Murtagh’s business?” Mallory asked.

  “Because he started poking around my business,” Conrad replied. “Or rather some of the men who work for him did. They tried to kill me last night.”

  The detective grunted in surprise. “You’ve got to tell me about this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Conrad explained the events of the night before.

  Mallory listened with rapt attention, his coffee forgotten. “If you go waltzing into Serrano’s and start asking questions of Murtagh, you won’t make it out of there alive.”

  “I don’t intend to walk up to the man and introduce myself as Conrad Browning. I thought I’d be a bit more subtle than that.”

  “You don’t think you’ll stick out like a sore thumb in the place?”

  Conrad glanced down at the silk dressing gown he wore. “I don’t plan to wear this, you know. I can change my appearance and pretend to be someone I’m not.”

  Mallory could ask the notorious gunfighter Kid Morgan about that if he didn’t believe it.

  “You need somebody with you who knows what it’s like down there,” Mallory said.

  “Are you volunteering for the job?”

  “Hell, no!” A grin spread across Mallory’s rugged face. “I’m not volunteering. It’ll cost you. More than you’re paying me to go around and ask questions at hospitals. In fact, if we’re lucky, that’s where we’ll wind up, in a hospital.”

  “And if we’re not lucky?”

  “The morgue,” Mallory said, then added with a shrug, “Or the Charles River.”

  Chapter 10

  They made arrangements to meet at the hotel at seven o’clock that evening. In the meantime, Conrad would pay a visit to Dr. Vernon Futrelle’s sanitarium in Cambridge.

  Conrad put in a call to the boarding house where Clancy lived, which was equipped with a telephone, and got him on the line. He asked the big Irishman to meet him at the hotel at two o’clock, then added, “That is, if you’re able to handle a team. How’s your arm today?”

  “A bit stiff and sore, but fine other than that. Gallagher did a fine job of patchin’ it up, although I still hate to think of all that whiskey goin’ for medicinal purposes.”

  Conrad chuckled. “Stick with me, my friend, and you’ll be able to afford plenty of whiskey.”

  “I’m your man, Mr. Browning. I’ll be there.”

  After Conrad ended the call, Arturo said, “It sounds to me as if you’ll be leaping right from one danger into another, sir.”

  “Are you talking about going to the sanitarium?” Conrad asked with a frown. “I shouldn’t be in any danger there. Now, Serrano’s will be a different story tonight.”

  “I don’t like sanitariums,” Arturo said. “There’s an air of madness about them, and it’s too easy for one to be locked up in such a place.”

  Conrad shook his head. “This isn’t that sort of sanitarium. Dr. Futrelle handles different kinds of ailments.”

  Yet there might be something to what Arturo said, Conrad mused. When Futrelle’s patients were drying out from booze or trying to get away from opium or other drugs, there might well be times when they would have to be locked up, perhaps even restrained, as lunatics were in asylums. In order to do that, Futrelle would have to have some tough, burly orderlies working for him.

  “But don’t worry, Arturo, I’ll be careful.” Conrad’s face and voice grew grim. “These probably won’t be the last risks I’ll have to run before I find my children.”

  The valet couldn’t argue with that. He inclined his head in acknowledgment that for Conrad Browning, there were more important considerations than his personal safety.

  Clancy arrived with the carriage at the appointed time. A
slight bulkiness under the left sleeve of his coat where the bandage was wrapped around his arm was the only sign of his injury. He thumbed his plug hat back on his head and asked, “Where is it we’re headed this afternoon, sir?”

  “A private sanitarium in Cambridge, Clancy.”

  The big Irishman frowned. “Are ye havin’ medical problems, sir? I hope you’re not thinkin’ about havin’ this arm o’ mine looked at. ’Tis not necessary.”

  “No, I’m just looking for information,” Conrad assured him.

  They crossed the Charles River on the West Boston Bridge and rolled into Cambridge, where Conrad had attended Harvard. He saw a lot of familiar sights from those days but felt no particular nostalgia for them. When he was in college, he had thought he knew everything there was to know. It had taken life itself to teach him how ignorant he truly was.

  The Futrelle Sanitarium and Private Hospital was located behind a high stone wall lined with hedges. When the carriage pulled up to a pair of massive wrought-iron gates, Conrad looked between the bars and saw a squarish, three-story building of brown brick squatting in the middle of a landscaped lawn that covered several acres. The grounds were fairly attractive, with plenty of green grass, trees, and flower beds with flagstone walks winding between them. The sanitarium itself was plain and ugly.

  A stocky guard in a blue uniform and black cap that made him look a little like a police officer stepped out of a guardhouse next to the gates. He carried a single-barreled shotgun tucked under his arm and regarded Clancy with narrow, suspicious eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  Conrad had told Clancy what to say. “Mr. Conrad Browning to see Dr. Futrelle, if ye don’t mind.”

  “Wait there.” The guard ducked back into the little building and was gone for a minute or so. When he came back, he shook his head and said, “Mr. Browning isn’t on the list of the doctor’s appointments. Sorry, you can’t come in.”

  Conrad opened the carriage door and stepped down to the ground. He smiled at the guard. “I know I don’t have an appointment, but I won’t take up much of the doctor’s time. He and I have a number of mutual friends.”

  “You need to see him about a medical matter?” the guard asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Working there, the man would know wealth when he saw it. He thought it over for a second, then said, “If you can wait a minute, Mr. Browning, I’ll check with the doctor’s secretary.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  They had some way of communicating between the guardhouse and the main building, Conrad thought. Either a telephone line or some sort of speaking tube. He filed the information away in his mind. You never knew when such a thing might come in handy.

  The wait was longer, but when the guard came back out, he said, “Dr. Futrelle will see you for a few minutes.” He shoved a lever that sent the gates rumbling back. “Drive straight to the main building and someone will meet you.”

  “Thank you.” Conrad climbed back into the carriage.

  By the time they reached the main building, a woman in a starched white dress and light blue apron and cap was waiting for them. “Mr. Browning?” she asked as Conrad climbed down from the carriage. “I’m Lois Fielding, one of the nurses here. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to Dr. Futrelle’s office.” She glanced at Clancy. “Your driver will have to wait here.”

  “That’s fine. Don’t wander off, Clancy.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’ll be right here.”

  Having spent so much time in the more egalitarian West the past few years, Conrad found the nurse’s condescending tone when she spoke about Clancy bothersome. He didn’t show his annoyance. As a rich Bostonian, he was supposed to feel the same way.

  Conrad noted the heavy locks on the front door and the bars on the windows as he went inside the sanitarium with the nurse. She led him through a small reception area and down a corridor to a set of double doors. He had a feeling it was all offices on the ground floor, with the patients being housed on the upper floors. The iron bars on the windows ought to keep them in, but the height served as an extra deterrent to escape. Somebody who really wanted a drink might go to almost any lengths to get one.

  Nurse Fielding knocked on one of the double doors. A man’s voice called from the other side. “Come in.”

  The nurse opened the door and said, “Mr. Browning, Doctor.” She stepped back.

  Conrad entered and found himself in a large, book-lined room that obviously served as both office and library for Dr. Vernon Futrelle. The window behind the desk looked out over the grounds and relieved some of the grim atmosphere engendered by the rank upon rank of thick volumes mostly bound in black or dark brown leather.

  The man who came out from behind the desk and walked toward Conrad with his hand extended was familiar. He realized he had seen the doctor at various social functions in the past. Futrelle was short and thick-bodied, with a prominent paunch over which a gold watch chain draped. He had a bulldog face, spectacles, and a brush of graying red hair that stuck up straight from his head. His grip was strong as he shook hands with Conrad.

  “Mr. Browning,” he said. “I believe we’ve met before. I knew your mother and your father, certainly.”

  The way he phrased it made it sound as though he wasn’t aware that Frank Morgan was really Conrad’s father, which was certainly possible. Vivian Browning had never done anything to publicize that fact, and neither had Conrad while he lived in Boston.

  “It’s good to see you again, Doctor.”

  Futrelle waved him into a comfortable leather armchair in front of the desk. “Sit down, my boy. What can I do for you? You’re not having medical problems, are you? I must say, you look as healthy as a horse! Healthier than some horses I’ve seen, in fact.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Conrad said as he sat down and crossed his legs. He rested his hat on his knee. “I’m here about someone else. A … friend of mine.”

  Futrelle settled back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. “Not one of those hypothetical friends that are really you, I hope.”

  Conrad laughed and shook his head. “No chance of that. This lady had a condition that’s quite impossible for me to attain.”

  Futrelle raised his eyebrows. “A lady, eh? Are we speaking of a … delicate condition?”

  “Precisely,” Conrad said.

  “Well, that’s troubling,” Futrelle said. “I suppose that discretion is an absolute necessity, eh?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  Futrelle nodded slowly, wisely. Conrad knew exactly what he was thinking. The doctor believed Conrad had gotten some girl pregnant, probably a servant, and wanted the situation dealt with as efficiently as possible, with no fuss. In cases such as that, the gentleman involved would pay for the girl to stay at the sanitarium until the baby was born, and then a discreet adoption would be arranged. The whole process was expensive, but well worth it for a man who valued his privacy.

  “I believe we can assist you, Mr. Browning,” Futrelle said. “What’s the young lady’s name?”

  “Pamela,” Conrad said.

  Futrelle raised his eyebrows again. He was surprised, and though he tried to control the reaction, he didn’t quite succeed.

  “Pamela Tarleton,” Conrad went on.

  There was a flash of genuine fear in Futrelle’s eyes, and Conrad knew he had come to the right place.

  Anger replaced the fear as Futrelle snapped, “This isn’t amusing, Mr. Browning. I know very well that Miss Tarleton was your fiancée at one time. I also know that she’s dead. If she ever was a patient here, and I’m not saying she was, I’d be honor bound not to reveal anything about her stay with us.”

  “You don’t have to reveal anything, Doctor,” Conrad said in a tone as sharp as Futrelle’s. He played the rest of his cards. “I already know she came here to give birth, and that’s exactly what she did. She bore two children, twins. What I want to know is what happened to those children.”

&nb
sp; Futrelle reached for a bell push on the desk. “This is none of your business, sir—”

  In a motion almost too swift for the eye to follow, Conrad was on his feet. His hand shot out and closed around Futrelle’s wrist, stopping the doctor from reaching the bell.

  “It is every bit my business,” Conrad said in a low, dangerous voice. “Those were my children, Doctor. You’re going to tell me what happened to them and where they are now.”

  Futrelle’s eyes looked wild and panicky behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. “You’re insane! I don’t know what you’re talking about. None of this ever happened—”

  “Show me the records, Doctor,” Conrad grated. If he found out what he needed to know at the sanitarium, he wouldn’t have to go to Serrano’s. “Show me the records, or my lawyers will be in court first thing tomorrow morning filing motions.”

  “You can’t force me to do such a thing! It’s not legal.”

  “Maybe not, but it certainly wouldn’t be a good thing for your business to be dragged into the light of a courtroom, would it?”

  “But … but … I can’t show you the records! There aren’t any records!”

  Conrad’s grip on the doctor’s arm tightened. “Are you trying to tell me that Pamela wasn’t here?”

  Futrelle shook his head. “No … No, she was here … but she took all the records with her. When she left with … with the children … there were some men with her. I don’t know who they were, but they were very … threatening.”

  Conrad drew in a deep breath. He didn’t doubt that Pamela had hired some thugs to make Futrelle turn over all the records. She had hired gunmen to kidnap and murder Rebel and then later to try to kill him. He wondered suddenly if Eddie Murtagh had been working for her even back then.

  The main thing filling his mind at the moment was Futrelle’s admission that Pamela had left with the children. It was the first direct evidence Conrad had found that the children even existed.

  “The twins,” he said softly. “They were twins?”

  Futrelle jerked his head in a nod. “That’s right.”