Whatever passed as normal in Dawson, Yukon Territory. A filthy old drunk leered in my face, groping for my breast. “Let’s have a squeeze, sweetie.” He smelled of cheap whisky, cheaper cigars, rotten teeth and unwashed clothes.
I stiff-armed him off the boardwalk without breaking my stride.
Chapter Forty-One
I walked into Helen’s scullery to find Ray with his hands firmly planted on either side of Betsy’s ample rear end. Her dress was gathered up around her hips, giving me a much better view of her drawers, now sliding to the floor, and the wide expanse of her white bottom, than I wanted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Betsy shrieked and fell over trying to free her nether regions from Ray’s grip, pull down her dress, and pull up her drawers. She hit the floor with a loud thud and lay there, looking up at me. I was comforted by the sheer terror in her eyes.
Ray fumbled to do up the buttons of his trousers. “This isn’t what you think, Fee.”
“Betsy, wait for me outside my office. I will determine what wages you are owed.”
“Please, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Tidy your hair and return your clothes to some semblance of decency. I don’t want the clientele wondering what sort of establishment I run here.”
She struggled to her feet, pushed hair back into its pins, straightened her dress, burst into tears and fled.
I looked at my business partner, stuffing his shirttails back into his pants. “What you do with my girls in your own time is your business. But on the premises! How could you? Suppose I had been Inspector McKnight! Do you want to see us closed down?”
“Don’t blame Betsy.”
“If I don’t, then I have to blame you. And I can’t fire you, can I?”
He did have the good grace to look ashamed. Not at the act, I was sure, but only at being caught in it.
I turned to leave. “Give her a break, Fee.” He fastened his belt. “Betsy doesn’t deserve to be fired. I called her in here. Said I had something to tell her.”
“I warned her, Ray. I warned her what would happen if she continued fooling around with you. I can’t have problems between the girls. Trouble between her and Irene will come out on the stage and ruin their performance, and before you know it the men will be going to the Monte Carlo or the Horseshoe in search of a better show.”
Ray rubbed his face. “D’ye think Irene would care one bit, Fee? Is that it? I doubt Irene would mind if I lined up the whole chorus in here. One after the other.”
“Don’t be vulgar. By tomorrow it might not much matter to anyone what Irene thinks. I came to tell you that McKnight is focusing his investigation on her. I thought you would be concerned. Apparently I was wrong.”
I swept out of the room. The only thing better than a dramatic entrance is a dramatic exit.
If Irene were arrested for murder! Heavens, it didn’t bear thinking about. The most popular dance hall girl in Dawson, dragged off the stage in chains! I’d thought that nothing could dampen custom at the Savoy, but that might well do it. The men would be furious at me for letting such a thing happen, regardless of anyone’s guilt or innocence.
Betsy was sitting on the floor outside my office, sobbing her heart out. Her nose was a bulbous red, and she was wiping snot onto the sleeve of her dress. She struggled to her feet when she saw me approaching.
“We business people walk an exceedingly fine line, Betsy,” I said, opening the office door. “The police tolerate the dance halls because the men insist on it. Give them a hint of impropriety outside the boundaries they’ve set, and they’ll close us down in a minute.”
“I’m not a whore, Mrs. MacGillivray. I quite fancy Mr. Walker.” She wiped her sleeve across her face.
“If you want to pursue Mr. Walker, you’re welcome to do so.” I raised one hand. “But not as long as you’re an employee of the Savoy. If you wish to remain here, you’ll ignore him from now on. I’m the boss of the dance hall girls. You have no reason to deal with Mr. Walker. Ever. Shall I prepare your wages?”
She blew heartily onto her sleeve. “No.”
“Be back at eight o’clock for the show. But until I decide otherwise, you’re to dance in the back row. With commensurate wages.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray…”
“I’ll assign one of the others to sing your songs. Of course, if that’s not a suitable arrangement, you can seek employment elsewhere.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
Betsy bowed her head and mumbled, “Please, Mrs. MacGillivray. I don’t want to work nowhere else.”
“Be back by eight. And be prepared to dance in the back row.”
I went into my office fully aware that I should’ve thrown the useless cow into the street. I’d made the same mistake as she once: failed to understand who was the real boss. But I’d learned, fast, and not repeated that error again. Betsy had been warned twice now, and still I kept her on.
I was getting soft.
Chapter Forty-Two
Angus had loved every minute spent on the Creeks. Questioning the woman outside the miserable hovel scratched out of mud she called a hotel, sleeping on the naked hillside, eating five-day-old supplies. It had been wonderful and confirmed that all he wanted in life was to be an officer in the North-West Mounted Police. But here he was, once again, standing behind the box that served as a counter in the canvas tent that served as a hardware store.
If he weren’t twelve years old, he’d cry. The only thing Angus regretted about the expedition to the Creeks was that he’d missed the boxing match. By all accounts it had been a good one. Most of the men down at the waterfront were talking about it—even Mr. Mann had been there. Sergeant Lancaster had come into the store yesterday and entertained Angus, accompanied by Mr. Mann’s robust actions, with details of every punch, every feint, every duck. Big Boris Bovery had won, and maintained the honour of the Empire, but only after a hard fought battle.
Sergeant Lancaster suggested that Angus return for his lessons, starting the next day, and Mr. Mann approved.
Angus agreed, eagerly. They hadn’t had to forcibly arrest anyone up at the Creeks, or pressure a reluctant witness into submission. But if he was going to live his dream and become a member of the NWMP, Angus knew he had to learn how to defend himself.
At last, seven o’clock arrived. Time to pull the flap down over the front of the canvas tent.
“Go, Angus,” Mann said in his gruff, broken English. “I vill close.”
Angus knew he should offer to stay and help, because it was the right thing to do. But because he hated the store so much, he simply said, “See you later, sir,” and slipped into the maelstrom of Dawson on a Saturday night.
It was early still. His mother would be at the Savoy, and Mrs. Mann wouldn’t have dinner ready yet. He had things to think about, important things, confusing things, so he decided to walk through town before going home.
An unusually high number of people smiled at him or tossed him a wicked grin or stopped for a moment to talk. It seemed as if every person in Dawson, from children scarcely out of nappies to the oldest sourdough, had heard all about Angus’s disappearance.
Angus walked through the streets with his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wondered if,