The Girl in the Clockwork Collar. Kady Cross
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swore under his breath. “This is bloody marvelous,” he muttered, turning so the man wouldn’t hear.
“You think maybe he changed his name?” Sam whispered.
Griffin shook his head. “Jasper Renn’s his real name. That’s the one the men who came after him used—the name that was on the poster.” Maybe it was an alias, but it was the name the men would have used to lock him up.
“Then where the devil is he?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I have no bloody idea.”
The cowboy was talking again, so Griffin turned his attention back to him and the helpful George.
A tanned, slightly callused hand thrust a card toward the guard. “Name’s Whip Kirby. I’m a marshal from San Francisco.” His voice was strong, as though he wanted to be heard.
That was where Jasper was from. A marshal. So he was a lawman, then. Had he been sent to pick up Jasper and perhaps take him west? If so, where was Jasper?
“I’m not sure I can offer any further assistance, Marshal.” George’s tone and expression were wary now—as though he thought Kirby might ask a favor.
“Probably not, friend,” the lawman drawled. “But if Renn should happen to show up, perhaps you’d be so kind as to send word to me at this address.” He slid a card across the desk on top of more bills. “I’d be mightily obliged.”
George’s eyes lit up at the prospect of perhaps relieving the marshal of yet more money. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, sir.”
Kirby tipped his hat. “Thank you.” He turned to leave.
“Say,” George said, stopping him. “What’s this Renn done, anyway?”
The lawman paused. “I want to talk to him about a murder that took place a couple years ago in San Francisco.”
Sam’s elbow struck him hard in the ribs, and Griffin had to swallow his pain rather than voice it aloud. He shot his friend a dirty look, to which Sam managed to look passably apologetic.
“Who was killed?” George asked with obvious interest.
“Businessman. Important fella with a family and friends who want his killer brought to justice.” He rocked back on his heels. “While we’re talking, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a fellow by the name of Reno Dalton?”
George shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. He in cahoots with your guy?”
“Might be,” the marshal replied with a slight smile. He tapped his finger against the card on the desk. “You hear anything about either one of them, you let me know, won’t you? One lawman to another?”
George grinned. “Sure thing, Marshal.”
Kirby turned on his heel. What the still-smiling George couldn’t see was that the tall man’s smile vanished in a blink, replaced by an expression that Griffin could only describe as annoyed distaste.
“He was much more effective with Georgie Porgie than you were,” Sam commented when Kirby was well out of earshot. “You should have offered the git money.”
“I might have,” Griffin informed him with a scowl, “if you hadn’t slipped several notches down the evolutionary ladder with him. Thump your chest for me, and I could sell you to the zoo I’ve heard they’re building in the Bronx.”
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Griffin didn’t wait for his reply. He turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. “Coming?” he called over his shoulder.
Scowling, Sam followed after him.
Outside, the sun was warming the morning air. It was going to be a hot day. A metal horse—frame oxidized but rust-free—stood just past the steps near the sidewalk. It wasn’t an expensive model—its gears and inner workings were partially exposed—but it was a remarkable likeness that the craftsman must have labored over.
“Wonder if that’s Kirby’s?” Sam asked, examining the metal beast with great interest. “Did you notice if he wore spurs? I didn’t see any.”
Griffin shrugged. He didn’t share his friend’s fascination with the American West. “Sorry, I didn’t look.” He walked toward the hired steam carriage that waited for them just a few feet away.
Sam fell into step beside him. “You still want to look for Jasper? Or are we going home?”
“We came here to find Jasper, and that’s what I intend to do.” Griffin stepped up into the carriage and instructed the driver to take them back to the hotel. The girls would no doubt want to hear what they had learned. “Since we’ve had no luck finding him, and we’re not the only ones looking, I reckon we need to change tactics a bit.”
“What do you have in mind?” his friend inquired, as the carriage jerked into motion, its engine filling the air with moist steam.
Griffin leaned back against the seat and surveyed the bustling city before him. “I think we need to look for this Reno Dalton fellow. I think he’s connected to Jasper.”
“Don’t you think Kirby’s already looked for him?”
“Kirby’s a lawman.” Griffin ran a hand through his hair. “I doubt he’ll have better luck than we will.”
“How’s that? You think a duke will have better luck?”
“No, but I think a chest-thumping lout will,” Griffin informed him.
Sam grinned—and yet somehow managed to maintain a furrowed brow. “Finally. A bit of fun.”
Griffin sighed and shook his head. He had no doubt that he could blugg or bribe his way around Five Points—the logical place for anyone of a criminal ilk to hide. He needed information on Dalton and on Kirby. But more importantly, he needed to know whether or not the man he considered his friend was a cold-blooded killer.
CHAPTER THREE
Jasper woke to the feel of tepid water hitting his face.
At least he hoped it was water. He sniffed. Yep.
Swearing, he wiped his face with the back of his hand as he sat up. He blinked furiously as the curtains were torn back to reveal the bright morning sun. He never thought he’d miss overcast London, but Mei hadn’t left his room until dawn, and judging from the angle at which the sun glared at him, it couldn’t be much later than nine.
“Dalton wants to see you,” growled Little Hank. “Get dressed.”
Jasper squinted up at him, water dripping from his chin. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
The hulking brute sneered at him and stomped from the room. Jasper never thought he’d miss Sam Morgan, either, but at least he’d make a little conversation between grunts.
Sighing, he tossed back the blankets and crawled out of bed. There was a little water left in the pitcher on the nearby stand—Hank hadn’t dumped all of it on him—so he poured it into the basin and washed up as best he could. Then he dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers—he supposed he had Dalton to thank for those—and pulled on his boots before leaving the room.
Hank was waiting for him in the corridor.
“Walk,” he commanded, pointing toward the staircase that led down to the foyer.
Jasper did. He didn’t bother to ask what this was all about. He knew why he was there, just as he had known this day would come. He just hadn’t thought it would arrive so dang soon.
Little Hank led him to the dining room where Dalton sat at a long, polished table, breakfasting on steak and eggs. The smell of it made Jasper’s stomach growl. Were those…flapjacks? And there were biscuits, too—not cookies, like the English used the word but proper soft, fluffy biscuits—just begging