Fatal as a Fallen Woman (22 page)

Diana silently cursed her host's efficiency. She had to get out of this house, but how? She didn't want to challenge Matt directly. If she did, she was afraid he'd somehow prevent her from leaving at all. A man who'd secretly feed opiates to a woman and then try to enter her room in the middle of the night to compromise her virtue, could not be trusted to behave like a gentleman. She was considering pleading a headache, which would at least give her privacy to think, when Gilbert unexpectedly returned.

"What are you doing here?" Matt snapped at him.

Gilbert went as stiff as his celluloid shirt front. "I thought you'd want to know. Mrs. Torrence took the express to the mountains this morning."

"Which Mrs. Torrence?" Diana asked.

"The one next door." Gilbert unbent slightly. "She had a great deal of luggage with her, and her maid. I don't think she's coming back for awhile."

Matt's curses were not silent, but he recovered himself before he gave away any useful information. Belatedly remembering Diana's presence, he ushered the hapless Gilbert out of the dining room, leaving Diana alone with Jane and Mrs. Bowden.

"Do you think she's really deaf?" Diana asked, sliding her eyes toward the chaperone.

Jane managed a half smile. "I tested her myself. She's lucky if she catches one word in twenty."

"Good. We have to get out of here, Jane."

"I know. But where will we go?"

"To Torrence, after Miranda. And to tell the folks at Matt's dance hall that they're about to be evicted. I doubt he's going to be feeling generous once he discovers I've left him."

"Torrence? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, but that's where Father's business interests were centered, and he had another large house there. I'd still like to talk to Miranda. And Alan Kent, too." Diana caught Jane's eye. "I think he might know more about Matt and Miranda than he's said."

The slight rise of color in Jane's face was all that gave her feelings away. "Shall I pack?" she asked.

"Yes, but don't let anyone see what you're doing. We'll have to time our departure so that there is no one to stop or delay us. Mrs. Bowden takes an afternoon nap. Gilbert will probably be sent back to the depot. That will only leave Matt to worry about."

"Dorcas?"

"She'll help if I ask her to. We need to be ready to set out at short notice. Surely Matt will leave at some point during the day."

Diana glanced again at Jane. Did she really trust the younger woman? Enough to tell her about Ben? The last thing she wanted was for Matt to find out that Ben was already in Denver. If Matt
had
killed her father, he'd have no qualms about committing another murder to secure the fortune he seemed so determined to acquire.

Since Matt Hastings was not rational on the subject of the Torrence inheritance, Diana had no idea to what lengths he'd go in order to achieve his goal. Force an unwilling woman into marriage, it seemed. As long as he needed her to get at her father's fortune, she should be safe from overt violence at his hands. Ben, on the other hand, might be in harm's way.

She pled a headache when Matt returned to the dining room.

"What a pity," he murmured. "Why don't you go lie down? I'll send up a soothing tisane."

Ten minutes later, the steaming drink had been delivered and duly consigned to the chamberpot. Then Diana put the chair back against the door and set about helping Jane pack. They were soon ready to go, but Matt was still in the house.

"We'll wait him out," Diana said with grim determination.

"Is Ning coming for a lesson?" Jane asked. "We could send him for the police."

"And tell them what? It would be our word against Matt's. 'Boarders' against a wealthy, respected attorney."

When Ning arrived, she could sent a message to Ben instead, but he was the last person who should ride to her rescue. The attempt would likely get him killed.

In the end it didn't make any difference whether she decided to put Ning at risk as a messenger or not. Matt greeted the boy at the door and sent him away, telling him "Mrs. Diana" was resting and couldn't be disturbed.

* * * *

"Ready?" Charlie asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Ben didn't deign to reply, but he went out of the hotel in the other man's company and climbed into the closed cab Charlie had arranged for. This was probably not a good idea, Ben thought, but he had come up with nothing better since the previous evening.

Ning would keep an eye on Diana until nightfall. Ben had sent the boy off to Matt Hastings's house only a half hour earlier, after a long session with the lad at the hotel. Ning was an observant child. Between them, and with the aid of the Pinkerton men Ben had hired, they'd make sure nothing untoward happened to Diana.

Ben checked his pocket watch. Three o'clock. By now Ning would have told Diana she had bodyguards waiting out on Broadway. If she needed help, all she had to do was open a window and yell.

"Absolute discretion guaranteed," Charlie promised when the driver let them out in Denver's Chinatown a short time later.

In spite of his guide's reassurances, Ben's misgivings increased as he took in his surroundings. "If you're here to hit the pipe, I want no part of it."

"No. No. Only a fool thinks he can indulge himself with opium and not develop an insatiable craving for the drug."

But the sweet scent of the poppy hung in the air, along with the smell emanating from a nearby Chinese laundry.

"This is just a way to reach Holladay Street without anyone getting a look at you," Charlie insisted. "You did say you didn't want to be seen."

From what Charlie had told him, there were a good many Denver citizens, as well as visitors to the city, who'd rather chance being taken in a raid on an opium den than be observed entering a whorehouse. It seemed a trifling distinction to Ben, but he was willing to pretend he shared the sentiment if it got him the information he needed.

Without another word he followed Charlie into a non-descript building and up several steps. They proceeded along a dimly-lit hallway until they reached a locked door at the back.

"Who?" asked a muffled voice on the far side when Charlie knocked.

"Pearl," said Charlie. He winked at Ben. "If I wanted to smoke, I'd have said
en she quay
. That means opium smoker in Chinese."

"If you say so."

The sound of a bolt being drawn back riveted Ben's attention to the door, which creaked slowly open to reveal an elderly Chinese gentleman in colorful flowing robes. He was standing on a wide landing, guarding stairs that clearly led into the basement.

"Pay the man," Charlie said.

Ben obligingly deposited five dollars on the outstretched palm, thinking as he did so that the fellow had a rather large, pale hand for an oriental. He did not have time to consider the matter further, however, since Charlie was tugging at his sleeve.

They descended a half dozen steps by the light of a lantern hung from the ceiling and came to another, smaller landing at the turning. A door opened off it, the solid wooden surface broken only by a wicket. At the sound of their footsteps, someone opened it.

"How many?"

Charlie ignored the quavering voice and kept going down. Ben followed, though he cast one glance back over his shoulder. As a physician, he'd studied opium addiction. He had a fair idea what was inside that room.

There would be a plentiful supply of little lamps, pipes, and the black, tarry-looking substance that was opium. The smokers would recline on raised platforms, since the drug took away the will to do anything but sleep and take more opium. Even those who were new to the habit felt the compulsion to smoke at least once a day. True opium addicts were a pitiful sight, with sallow complexions and over-bright eyes dotted with tiny pupils. They were often emaciated, as well, since one of the first symptoms was a loss of interest in food.

The stairs ended abruptly and Ben found himself in a basement, from which a tunnel led underground to the lower level of a parlor house on Holladay Street. He knew it was a high-class place even before they encountered a Negro porter in livery because there was a furnace in the basement. He'd heard such innovations were available but this was the first time he had seen one.

The porter collected their entry fee, then escorted them upstairs and into one of the parlors. The walls were decorated with flocked wallpaper, gold on red in a pattern of flowering tulips enclosed by diamonds, and every few feet a large mirror had been hung. The glass reflected a bevy of young women wearing the high-waisted muslin gowns in fashion some eighty years earlier.

Easier to dispense with, Ben supposed. And certainly more revealing than more recent styles with hoop skirts and bustles.

A thin, waiflike girl leaped up at the sight of them, dislodging the poodle that had its head on her lap. "Charlie!" she cried. "Did you bring me a present?"

"Would I dare come without one?" he asked, embracing her. When he let her go, he produced a gold ring with what appeared to be a toothpick sticking out of it. On the other end of the toothpick was a small clamp designed to hold a cigarette.

Delighted, the young woman slid the ring onto her finger and gave Charlie a smacking kiss on the cheek.

A demure young brunette, also accompanied by a white poodle, approached Ben. "This is my place," she said, "and I don't know you."

"I brought him, Pearl. He's okay."

Swallowing his surprise that the madam of what Charlie had called "the richest and most exclusive brothel in Denver" was so young, Ben made a polite bow over her hand, brushing his lips across the back of it. "I hope you'll let me stay. I have a most particular reason for wanting to meet you."

Her delicately plucked brows lifted in unison. "To meet
me
, sir?"

He nodded gravely but said no more. He didn't want Charlie knowing any more of his business than necessary, especially since Charlie had once worked for William Torrence. In spite of his obvious dislike of the dead man, he might still have some loyalty to Torrence's widow. Let everyone think he'd come to the parlor house for the usual reason. Time enough to tell Pearl the truth when they were alone in her bedchamber.

But Pearl was not so easily won over, and she had responsibilities. He had to content himself with chatting with her, on and off, for half an hour, while Charlie disported himself in one of the upstairs rooms with his light o' love.

Ben did not give his name. No one expected him to. But in the course of conversation he did reveal he was a physician. He was sipping his second whiskey when he noticed that Pearl, who had been summoned away by one of her girls, was standing in the archway between parlors, watching him with a considering expression on her beautiful face.

He thought at first that someone must have discovered who he was and what he wanted, but quickly dismissed that idea. The only people in Denver who even knew his name, besides Diana and Ning, were Charlie, the desk clerk at the Windsor, and Harry the bartender. No one could possibly connect Ben Northcote from Maine with William Torrence of Colorado.

A moment later, Pearl approached him. There was something tentative in her manner that had not been present earlier. "Are you a good doctor?" she asked abruptly.

"I like to think so."

"And doctors keep confidences, is that right?"

He nodded and took a stab at guessing the problem. "One of your girls is sick?" He hoped she wasn't about to ask him to perform an abortion. He preferred not to engage in criminal activities if he could help it.

"Keep your voice down," she snapped. Seizing his hand, she led him from the room, climbing the stairs to the third floor.

In a small upper room, separate from the others in use, a woman dressed in a loose robe sat at a small table, her face buried in her arms. She was sobbing piteously.

"That's Gwen," Pearl said. "Help her and the night's on the house."

* * * *

A short time later, Ben was shown into Pearl Adams's private boudoir on the second floor of the parlor house. It was dominated by a brass bedstead covered with a Prince Albert canopy of primrose brocade. The white satin bedspread was embroidered in violets.

"Well?" his hostess demanded. "Is she diseased?"

Ben fought the urge to laugh. The subject was not cause for amusement among women who depended upon keeping their bodies healthy and attractive in order to earn a living. That "rich and exclusive" clientele would avoid Pearl's place like the plague if it got out one of her girls had the clap or "old ral," as syphilis was popularly called. An infectious disease like measles or smallpox would hardly be welcome either.

"She has a bad case of barber-itch," he said, settling himself on the satin-covered loveseat by the window. He wasn't planning to leave for some time.

"Never heard of it."

"It is generally a problem for men, but this girl apparently shaves her legs and underarms."

"Most prostitutes do." A wry chuckle burst from Pearl's lips. "One of the things that distinguishes those in our trade from real ladies, along with wearing cosmetics and riding astride."

"Be that as it may, people who shave with a dull razor risk this sort of reaction." He could understand why Pearl had thought it was more serious. What began as pale yellow pimples soon burst and formed hard brown crusts which, in turn, fell off to reveal purplish pimples which took a long time to disappear. The condition could be obstinate, sometimes lasting months. In the meantime the appearance of the skin would tend to  discourage potential customers.

"It's not contagious?"

"No. And the treatment is simple enough. I've told her to stop shaving entirely until she's healed, then make sure she uses only a clean, sharp blade. Avoiding exposure to excessive heat and practicing temperance in eating and drinking will speed healing. I recommend a cool, light diet."

"I'll see she gets it," Pearl promised.

"Good. Now, about my payment. I want information, not services."

Suspicious again, Pearl leaned back against an Empire dressing table and crossed her arms beneath her bosom. "What kind of information?"