Authors: Connie Mason
Belle hurried through the darkened streets. Had a hack been available she would have taken it, but they were predictably scarce when needed. Then she heard the rattle of wheels and breathed a sigh of relief as a hack came lumbering into view. Truth to tell, after last night’s break-in she was nervous about walking home in the dark. Belle stepped from the curb and hailed the driver. The hack ground to a halt. The driver stepped down from the box and opened the door. Belle barely gave him a second glance, except to note that his hat was pulled low over his eyes and he wore a colorful plaid jacket.
“Where to, lady?”
Belle gave the address on Telegraph Hill and settled back against the cushions. The hack clattered off down the street. After fifteen minutes or so, Belle realized it was taking an inordinate amount of time to reach Telegraph Hill and she glanced out the window. Dismay turned to fear when she realized nothing in the passing scenery was familiar. In addition to that, the hack had picked up speed and seemed to be racing down the street at a breakneck pace.
Sticking her head out the window, Belle screamed for the driver to stop. She might as well have been screaming to the wind for all the good it did. The driver didn’t even look back as he whipped up the horses. The ground sped by at an alarming rate. For the space of a heartbeat Belle considered jumping. But the thought died quickly when she realized she couldn’t risk the life of her child. She hung on for dear life and prayed that whoever was behind this scurrilous deed would realize his mistake and release her unhurt.
Don’t panic
, she told herself. There could be a
logical explanation to all this. And then it came to her.
Hank Jones!
He was the only person with a reason to kidnap her.
Suddenly the hack clattered to a halt. Before Belle could wrench the door open the driver jumped from the box, flung open the door, and dragged Belle out. She resisted fiercely but her strength was nothing compared to that of her abductor.
“Who are you? Where are you taking me?”
The man said nothing. He merely tightened his hold on her and dragged her toward a clapboard shack nestled against a hill in a copse of trees. He opened the door and threw her inside. Belle stumbled but caught herself, and watched in terror as her abductor lit a lamp, threw off his hat, and leered at her.
“You! So I was right. You’re Hank Jones. I saw you when I visited Harry Hopkins in jail. You’re the man who hurt Greta.”
“Your memory is good, lady,” Jones snarled. “Greta is the name of that whore I roughed up, ain’t it? She should have given me what I paid for. She’s a damn tease. Got me all hot and hard then changed her mind.”
“You beat her viciously,” Belle charged.
“She had it coming. No one cheats Hank Jones and gets away with it. McAllister learned the hard way not to cross me. Though it happened a long time ago, I just recently learned he was responsible for my father’s death, and told my mother the mine was worthless so she’d sell Pa’s share to him.”
“I was right! You killed my father-in-law!”
Jones glared at her. “So what? No big loss. The man was a liar, cheat, and murderer.”
“Killing McAllister makes you as evil as he was.
You could have gone to the authorities with your suspicions. And what about poor Harry Hopkins? He’s as innocent of murder as I was.”
Jones laughed gleefully. “That was right neighborly of Hopkins to confess. Either way, I’m in the clear. If Hopkins hadn’t confessed, you would have been convicted of the murder. I was in the courtroom the day of your trial. I saw how eager the jury was to convict you.”
Belle started toward the door. “I’m leaving. You disgust me.”
Jones was surprisingly fleet of foot for a man his size. He reached the door before Belle and thrust her aside. “You ain’t going nowhere.”
“What do you want from me?”
“You and that kid of yours inherited money that belongs to me. I would have snatched the kid but he’s too well-guarded.”
“You want money?”
He grinned, eyeing her with slow relish. “That’s part of it. I want your husband to leave me alone and stop poking into things that are none of his business. Hopkins will swing in another few days. Walker has got to stop investigating a murder that has already been solved.
“And another thing,” Jones said, eyeing her lewdly. “That old bitch at the whorehouse wouldn’t let me through the door when I got hankering for a woman and returned. No other whorehouse is open to me, either. No woman will let me touch her after I was jailed for roughing up that whore. Somebody owes me, and since you’re handy …” He started toward her, tearing off his jacket and working the buttons on his shirt.
Terrified, Belle retreated. “Touch me and you won’t get a cent of McAllister’s money.”
He paused, his expression thoughtful. “McAllister owes me. He killed my father.”
His hesitation gave Belle hope. “Hurting me will gain you nothing. How do you know McAllister killed your father?”
“I didn’t know until after Ma died recently. I found an unopened letter from Pa in her belongings. It was the last letter written to her before his ‘accidental’ death. The letter was caught in a narrow space behind a drawer. I have no idea why Ma never opened the letter, or how it became lodged behind the drawer, but I suspect she was too grief-stricken after Pa’s death to read it. She probably misplaced it and never found it. It fell to the floor when I pulled out the drawer, looking for money and valuables.”
Jones failed to explain that he had left home at the age of fifteen, shortly after his father’s death, to take up a life of crime. He had been angry with his mother for selling his father’s share of the mine to McAllister and refusing to part with any of the money. During the following twenty years Jones could count on one hand the times he had visited or kept in touch with his mother. After he learned of her death recently, he’d returned home, hoping his miserly parent had left him an inheritance. He’d found nothing substantial save the letter.
Seeing that Jones was lost in memories, Belle remained silent, edging farther away from him. She started violently when he resumed speaking.
“Pa wrote that if he should suffer an unfortunate accident, we should suspect McAllister of foul play. He said that McAllister was angry with him for
refusing to sell his share of the mine. Pa felt that McAllister was trying to cheat him and Hopkins. I came all the way to San Francisco to confront McAllister and demand my dues, but the bastard laughed at me.”
“So you killed him,” Belle said. “That made you no better than he, if what you say is true. What did you gain by committing murder?”
Jones sneered. “Satisfaction, lady, satisfaction. McAllister as much as admitted he cheated both Pa and old man Hopkins. He told me I could prove nothing, that my letter was twenty years old and the law would turn a deaf ear at my claim. But I got even. And now you’re going to give me everything that’s due me.”
He met her across the room and cornered her against the far wall, trapping her within the span of his arms as he braced them on either side of her. “You’re a pretty little thing. Prettier than Greta. You ain’t gonna make me hurt you, are you?”
Belle tried to duck beneath his arm but he pressed her against the wall with the weight of his body. She felt like a trapped rabbit. His body was hard and heavy against hers and his fetid breath made her gag. Fear lanced through her. She recalled Greta’s bruised body and battered face, and knew Hank Jones was a brutal man.
“There is only one way you can get any money from the estate and that’s through either me or my husband. Casey will hunt you down no matter where you go, if you hurt me.”
Belle’s words gave her a small amount of comfort. It occurred to her that Casey would protect her and Tommy with his life. She’d just been too stubborn to acknowledge the depth of Casey’s feelings for her.
Or admit her own for him. If she ever saw Casey again, the first thing she’d tell him was that she loved him.
Jones stared at Belle, his lust barely contained. Not the brightest of men, he did realize that Casey Walker wasn’t a man to be trifled with. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the detective found enough evidence to clear Hopkins despite the old man’s confession. But now that Jones had leverage in the person of Walker’s wife, he could demand that Walker drop the investigation and ransom his wife for McAllister’s money. Taking his pleasure with the little slut wasn’t worth his life, or the money he’d get for her return, if he decided to return her after he had the money safely in his hand. But if he wasn’t careful he’d have the entire Pinkerton Agency breathing down his neck, and he couldn’t afford that.
“You win for now, lady,” Jones said, backing away. “But your man better do as I say or your life ain’t worth shit.” He shrugged into his jacket and jammed his hat on his head, glaring at Belle with obvious malice.
Belle had to lock her knees in order to keep them from collapsing, so great was her relief. “Where are you going?”
“You gonna miss me?” He leered at her. “Don’t worry, lady, I ain’t going far. I’m gonna contact your man and tell him you’ll stay healthy as long as he does like I say. Don’t try to escape,” he warned. “The windows are shuttered and I’m gonna bar the door from the outside. If the candle burns down there’s another beside it. I ain’t gonna starve you, either. I’ll bring some grub back with me.”
Belle held her breath as Jones slammed out the
door. The moment the door closed behind him she rushed forward. She was too late. She heard the bar slide into place and began screaming and pounding on the door in a fit of irrational panic. What if Jones decided not to return? Her body wouldn’t be found for months, maybe years, in this secluded place. And her babe would die with her. What would Casey think when she failed to return? How long would he look for her before giving up?
Casey returned home shortly after dark. He’d had a busy but rewarding day. He’d received a telegram in answer to his inquiry into Hank Jones’ past. The message was enlightening. Hank Jones had earned a reputation in the Midwest as a habitual criminal. Until now he’d not strayed west of the Mississippi. There was a poster and reward out on him for his capture. He was wanted for killing a man during a bank robbery. Casey had already spoken to the sheriff, who had promised to keep an eye out for Jones. He couldn’t wait to tell Belle what he’d learned.
Casey bounded up the front steps, eager for the sight of his wife. Before he reached the landing the door was flung open. Greta stood on the threshold. She was wringing her hands, clearly distraught. Casey’s heart skipped a beat.
“What is it, Greta? Is it Tommy? Where is Belle?”
“I didn’t even know she’d left the house,” Greta wailed. “Mark was unexpectedly called to the winery to inspect a piece of equipment that had broken down, and I was going over lessons with Tommy.”
Beads of cold sweat broke out on Casey’s forehead. He grasped Greta’s shoulders, shaking her to
calm her down. “Has something happened to Belle?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know. She went out and should have returned long before now. Why did she leave without saying anything?”
Anger exploded inside Casey. “Damn her! She probably went to the jailhouse without my permission. I’ll go get her. When Mark gets home …”
“Did someone mention my name?”
“Oh, Mark,” Greta sobbed as she launched herself at Mark. He barely had time to mount the stairs and catch her in his arms.
“What’s going on here?” Mark asked, alarm evident in his voice.
Casey’s face was grim. “That’s what I want to know. Belle left the house earlier and hasn’t returned.”
“Good Lord! I wouldn’t have left if I thought she would go out the minute my back was turned. Why are we standing here talking? Do you have any clues?”
“I suspect Belle went to the jailhouse,” Casey allowed. “But she’d have returned before now.”
Suddenly the metallic scrape of the gate latch brought three heads swiveling around to view the newcomer. A ragged street urchin stood just inside the gate, looking as if he was ready to bolt.
“Are either of you gents Mr. Casey Walker?”
Casey stepped forward. “I’m Casey Walker. What can I do for you, son?”
“I got a note for you, mister. The man said to deliver it personally into your hands. He gave me a whole dollar.” He offered Casey a folded sheet of paper that bore his grimy fingerprints.
“Don’t let him leave yet, Mark,” Casey barked as he plucked the note from the youngster’s hand. His own hands were trembling as he read it.
“Let me go!” The boy resisted violently as Mark held him in place. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“Good God!” Casey’s face went white beneath his tan. “The bastard! I’ll kill him if he’s hurt Belle.”
“What is it?” Mark’s voice was sharp with concern.
“Hank Jones has Belle. He wants me to stop my investigation of McAllister’s murder. If I don’t, he’ll hurt Belle. He’s asking ten thousand dollars in gold for her safe return. He’s going to contact me later, with instructions on where to leave the money. He also says I’m not to try to find him or go to the sheriff. If I do he won’t be responsible for Belle’s safety.”
Mark spat out an oath. “The man is a brutal killer. Look what he did to Greta. We’ve got to find Belle, Casey.”
Casey glanced down at the youngster struggling in Mark’s grip. He knelt before the boy and grasped his thin shoulders. “Where did you get this note, son?”
The boy was shaking with fear. “I don’t know nothing, mister. The man just came up to me on the street and offered me a dollar to carry a note. He gave me the address and I ran all the way. You gotta believe me, mister.”
“I believe you, son,” Casey said in a more reasonable tone, “but I want you to tell me everything you remember about the man. Was he tall or short? Fat or thin? Did you see where he went when he left? Was he riding or walking? Try to remember, it’s important.”
Casey’s mild tone somewhat eased the boy’s fears. “The man was big but I couldn’t see his face. He wore a hat and plaid jacket.”
“What color hat?”
“Black, I think.”
“And the jacket? What color plaid?” Casey was grasping at straws and knew it.