The Law and Miss Mary

“No deal, Hogan.”

“Not even to find out what happened to the Swift Water?”

Sam stopped, turned and stared into the bloodshot eyes in the scrubby, whiskered face pressed against the bars. “What do you know about the Swift Water?”

Hogan grinned. “You gonna let me outta here?”

Sam walked to the cell. “That depends on what you know and how reliable your information is.”

“I know one of the crew was paid to blow her up.”

“Sorry. Everyone has heard that rumor.” He turned toward the door.

“But they don’t know who.”

There was certainty behind the words. Sam looked back. “Who?”

Thick lips pushed a curved line through the grizzled beard.

Sam nodded. “All right, fair enough. How do you know? I’m not interested in rumors.”

“It ain’t no rumor. I seen him flashin’ money and braggin’ about it in a tavern. Tellin’ around what a big man he was an’ all.”

“Who paid him?”

Hogan scowled. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him that yerself.”

Sam nodded. The story had the ring of truth. “Do you know anything about the other destroyed M and M line boats? The Clear Water or the Mississippi Princess?”

“The Princess was an accident. Sawyer got her. Don’t know about the Clear Water.”

“All right.” He stuck the key in the lock, paused. “But the deal is this—if you ever pull a knife in a fight again, you’ll do double time for it. Understood?”

Hogan nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced down at the ring of keys. “The name’s Duffy. He’s a stoker.”

“I know him. Do you know what boat he’s working?”

“Last I knew he was up the Missouri on the Adventure.”

Sam twisted the key and opened the cell door. “All right, Hogan. Get back to the levee. And don’t forget—no more knives or I’ll put you back in here and throw away the key.”

Hogan nodded and hurried down the hall. Sam followed him to the other room, tossed his keys into the drawer, then grabbed his hat and dogged the man’s heels outside. Now all he had to do was locate Duffy. And find out if the man had any connection to James Randolph, or the new owner of the M and M line. Maybe he could do that through Thomas, and not tip his hand.

He cut across lots to Olive Street, where Thomas had lived since vacating the manager’s cottage, and knocked on the door of Emily Stanton’s boardinghouse. He waited, wondering about the sudden sense of disquiet in his gut.

The door opened. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Stanton.”

“Why, Captain Benton!” Surprise widened the round eyes looking up at him. “What brings you here?”

“I need to talk with Mr. Thomas. If I could—” He stopped, staring down at her shaking head.

“You’re too late, Captain. He ain’t here.”

The disquiet grew. “Did he tell you where he was going? I can catch up with him if—” The gray head was shaking again.

“He didn’t tell me where he was going. Only packed up and left three days ago.” A frown deepened the wrinkles in the plump face. “Late at night, it was. I heard someone on the stairs, peeked out my door and saw him leave. Sort of odd. Most times when someone goes sneakin’ out the door in the middle of the night, it’s ’ cause they can’t pay their bill. But he didn’t owe me nothing.”

“I see.” Sam nodded, touched his hat brim again. “Thank you for the information, Mrs. Stanton. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Captain.” She started to close the door, then pulled it open and stuck her head out. “If you hear of somebody decent that needs a room, tell them I’ve got one empty.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Stanton.” Sam trotted down the steps and headed for the levee. Now he had two men to track down. Duffy and Thomas. Queer, Thomas leaving like that. Could there be a connection between that and James Randolph’s arrival? Seemed as if there might be. But why did Thomas sneak off? There was no reason for that, unless it was to keep his leaving a secret. And if that was so, who was he—

Sam’s face tightened. Could it be him? Could it be Thomas didn’t want him to know he was leaving town? Now why would that be? He tugged his hat down snug and let his mind play with that thought while he ate up the distance to the levee with his long strides.

“What is going on in here?”

Mary spun around, and gaped at her brother standing in the washroom doorway. “James! You are home.”

He nodded. “Yes. That is what I do when it is time to eat. I come home. Why the surprise?”

She laughed and hurried toward him. “I did not hear you come in the house is all. As small as it is, I was certain I would. I am sorry. I should have been waiting to greet you.” She touched his arm, gave a little push—a signal for him to leave.

He stood his ground, riveting his gaze on the scene behind her. Botheration! She had wanted a chance to explain before he saw Ben. Especially since the boy was wearing a shirt that had been in James’s dresser drawer when he left the house that morning. Her heart sank as he frowned at her.

“Mary, what—”

She squeezed his arm, sent him the silent “don’t ask questions” command with her eyes that she had perfected during their childhood years. Of course, that was when her demand usually involved keeping a secret from their parents. It was different now. He would probably ignore her signal. “I am finished here, James.” She gave him another tiny push, then looked over her shoulder. “Edda, if you will launder Ben’s clothes, please.”

“Ja.” The plump woman turned, lifted the small pile of filthy garments off the floor and plunged them into the tub of Ben’s bathwater.

James’s frown deepened to a scowl. Mary gave him another pinch. “Shall we go into the parlor and chat while Ivy prepares our dinner, James?”

His gaze fastened on hers. “That is an excellent suggestion.”

This time he yielded to her pressure against his arm and stepped back. She sailed past him, hurried to the small parlor and turned to face him. The scowl was still on his face.

“All right, Mary. Why is our cook’s son wearing one of my shirts?”

“Our cook’s son?” She laughed and relaxed into one of the Windsor chairs. “Ben is not Ivy’s son, James. He is a boy from the streets who carried my basket home from the market. And as for your shirt…what else had I to dress him in while his clothes are being laundered? I could hardly give him one of my gowns.”

“An unknown, dirty boy from the streets is wear—”

“Hush, James! He will hear you.” Mary surged to her feet, then closed the parlor door and whirled to face him. “And Ben is not dirty. I had him bathe as soon as we fed him and he agreed to stay awhile—Ivy even scrubbed his hair clean.” She glared up at him. “And shame on you for your lack of compassion! What—”

“Whoa! Hold on.” James held his hand up palm forward. “Before you castigate me for my attitude, I think you should at least tell me what is going on. How that boy got into our house and—”

“I have told you, James.”