Gold Digger: A Klondike Mystery by Delany Vicki

Author:Delany, Vicki [Delany, Vicki]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2009-04-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Graham Donohue instinctively pulled his hands back from his chips and clutched his cards to his chest. “I’m busy at the moment.”

“Too bad,” Inspector McKnight said. “I intend to talk to you. We can conduct our business here, if you like.”

The dealer’s eyes opened wide, and he looked at me for instruction.

I gave him a shrug. I had no better idea than he as to what we should do.

“We’re having a serious game here,” a poker player growled. It was the Indian fighter I’d noticed before. Probably not the sort of man who had a healthy respect for Her Majesty’s Officers of the Law.

“Graham,” I said, sensing trouble brewing, “I’m sure it won’t take long to answer Inspector McKnight’s questions. And then your game can continue.”

“You leave this table, pal, game’s over,” the Indian fighter said. He fingered his belt, looking disappointed not to find a six-shooter, or whatever they called it, resting there. Guns were banned from town. The two other players appeared relieved at having their game interrupted. I surmised that they didn’t have promising hands.

“If you don’t come willingly, Donohue,” McKnight said in a low voice, “then I will be forced to place you under arrest.”

Graham tossed his cards at the dealer and gathered up his chips. The Indian fighter growled, deep in his chest.

“If you interfere in this matter,” Sterling said to him, “you’ll find yourself under arrest. Dealer, portion out the remaining chips. This game is over.”

Graham got to his feet with a heavy sigh. The Indian fighter threw his cards on the table. “Don’t know what sort of town you’re running here. I’ll be on the next boat out.” He stuffed his chips into various pockets.

But he didn’t mean “next” in the literal sense: he joined the game at the faro table.

I hurried out the door in pursuit of Graham and the Mounties. The police stood on either side of my friend. Richard Sterling rested a hand on one of Graham’s elbows. The life of the bar swirled all around us. In the dance hall, Betsy’s voice reached a high note, reminding me that I should be in there, watching. Ray was occupied peeling a man up off the floor.

“Do you have a place where we can talk to Mr. Donohue?” McKnight asked. “In private.”

“No,” I said.

“For heaven’s sake, Fiona,” Graham pleaded, “say yes. I want to get this charade over.”

“Very well. You can use my office. Follow me.” I led the way up the stairs. All conversation stopped as every man in the room watched us. And not just those who were hoping to get a peek at my ankles.

I threw the door to the office open, and the three men marched through. I debated leaving, but decided on principle—it was my office—to hang around until they told me to go. I closed the door.

“Sit,” McKnight told Graham. Graham walked around my desk to sit in my chair, facing into the room. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his hands shook as he pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes.

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