Murder on Millionaires' Row: A Mystery by Erin Lindsey

Author:Erin Lindsey [Lindsey, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Paranormal Fiction, 2018, Historical Fiction

CHAPTER 19

THE BLOODHOUND—HARLEM’S HOUSE OF HAUNTINGS—THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

“I’m afraid I must warn you,” Mr. Wiltshire said as we stepped out of the brougham, “it is not a pleasant establishment.”

As though I needed to be told. I’d wandered into my share of rum shops growing up. Looking for my da, usually, or the husband of a neighbor. I’d even taken a turn or two as a rusher when I needed some pocket money, though Mam would’ve had a stroke if she’d known. (Good Catholic girls did not set foot in saloons, and they certainly didn’t run around peddling growlers to any local bum with a few coins to rub together.) Even so, it had been a long time since I’d seen the inside of a place like this, and I’d never done so in the company of a high society gentleman. It made the experience doubly awkward, not unlike our visit to Mam’s flat the night before.

One-Eyed Johnny’s smelled like stale beer and a dozen more unpleasant things, but at least it had the virtue of being dark. There were no windows, and the mismatched lamps and candles strewn here and there were barely enough to light a pathway to the bar. It being a Saturday, the place was crowded; Mr. Wiltshire picked his way through the human driftwood with great care, using his walking stick to clear a corridor through the thicker piles of straw. His oxfords fairly glowed in the lamplight, by far the shiniest thing in the room.

“Sir Thomas,” said a deep voice, and I looked up to find a big fellow grinning at us from behind the bar. He wore a patch over his left eye; an angry scar ran from the side of his nose to the gleaming crown of his bald black head. The eponymous Johnny, I presumed.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Johnny. I’m quite sure I’ve mentioned that I’m not a knight.”

“You English, ain’t you? Close enough.” Johnny hefted a dark bottle questioningly, but Mr. Wiltshire shook his head. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is my associate, Miss Gallagher.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Nice joint you got here.”

“Five Points girl. I like her already.”

I winced inwardly. I’d worked hard to scrub my accent clean, but apparently traces of the slum remained. “Good ear,” I said with a weak smile.

“Better than the eye, anyways. Lookin’ for Annie, I s’pose?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “Is she here?”

Johnny gestured with a filthy glass. “She’s in a mood, though. Best watch yourself.”

“How unusual,” Mr. Wiltshire said dryly, grabbing a lamp and heading toward a heap of rags slumped at the end of the bar. As the lamplight drew nearer, the rags resolved themselves into a woman—or at least, a womanlike creature. She was about forty, judging from the lines on her face, though it was hard to tell how much of that was age and how much a lifetime of hard drinking. Her frame, too, showed the ravages of the bottle, and she had a head

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