that way, Mrs. Leblanc, quiet and peaceful.”
“That chit of a squaw ’as humiliated me in front of my employees and my customers.” Leblanc’s accent held strong memory of Montreal French. She spoke in an even tone, as if they were discussing the weather. “I don’t care for that.”
“The North-West Mounted Police don’t give a damn what you care for, Mrs. LeBlanc. As long as you keep it to yourself.”
“Really, Constable, such language. But perhaps that is why a promising, but not-so-young, fellow such as yourself remains only a constable?”
The barb struck home, and Sterling could tell by the expression on the whore-mistress’s face that she knew it had.
“You and your friends,” he glanced at the two hired toughs, “are to leave Mary alone.”
“ Mais, monsieur, she owes me money.” LeBlanc shrugged and held out her arms. “What is a poor widow to do to get justice?”
“Take it before a judge, madam. But if any harm comes to Mary, I’ll know where to come looking.”
“’arm Mary? Who would do such a thing? A damaged whore is no good to me. She’ll return of ’er own free will, Monsieur Sterling. The world is a frightening place for a woman on ’er own.”
“Perhaps,” Sterling said. He walked away without bothering to say goodbye. In his wake the street returned to life; whores opened the doors of their cribs and men crept out from alleys and side streets.
* * *
It was well after eight when I arrived at the Savoy. Most of the dance halls in Dawson are open twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. Even in the early hours of the morning or in the middle of the night—or what passes for night this far north in late June—the croupiers are spinning the tables and dealing cards and calling out their magic words, the bartenders are pouring rivers of liquor, and the dance hall girls are kicking up their heels for a dollar a dance and selling champagne by the wagon load. But at eight o’clock in the evening, something special settles over town as the musicians and callers come out onto Front Street, set themselves on the boardwalk, or in the middle of the street, and announce with much fanfare that the show is about to begin.
Then they all troop back inside, hopefully followed by a crowd of eager cheechakos and sourdoughs, every one of them begging for the chance to spend their money.
Tonight the stage at the Savoy was presenting scenes from the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare, a goodly number of heart-wrenching songs specially designed to have the lonely miners weeping in their dust-encrusted handkerchiefs, and a rather poor vaudeville act, which would have to do until I could find something better. At midnight the stage show ended, the percentage girls stepped forward to dance, and the performers changed their stage costumes for evening wear. The dancing would go on until six a.m., at which time the girls would cash in their drink tokens and stagger home.
They were in the middle of the opening dance when I walked into the hall. I counted the girls in the row: all present and accounted for. They kicked up their heels and flashed their petticoats and the crowd roared in approval. Ellie stepped forward to begin her song. She was the oldest of my girls by far. Sometimes she struggled to keep up with the younger ones, particularly at the end of a long night. But the men liked her, and that was all that counted. Perhaps she reminded them of dead mothers and abandoned wives. She acted as a mother hen, looking out for the other girls, which relieved me of some of that chore.
I stood at the back, inches away from the wall—it would never do to lean—and watched. Ellie finished her song, gave a deep curtsy in exchange for thunderous applause, and the dancers trooped out again. I made a mental note to tell the second girl from the left to give her petticoats a good wash before stepping onto my stage again. Chloe was so bad tonight that only nimble movement on the part of the dancer next to her avoided several collisions. Drunk, I suspected. In my dance hall, as in all the others, the girls were expected to accept drinks from the customers once the dancing began, and more than a few would be quite tipsy by the end of the evening. But to show up drunk for the stage show? That was not at all acceptable. Chloe had always been a problem—a generally miserable, lazy, pastyfaced, skinny piece of flotsam who didn’t have any apparent talents. She wasn’t popular with the men, and I would have shown her the door long ago if she wasn’t such good friends with Irene. Irene, stage name of Lady Irenee, liked having Chloe around, and as long as Irene was the men’s favourite, I would keep her happy. I thought that Chloe served as a substitute for the fussy lapdog with ribbons in its fur theatrical women like to carry around. That wouldn’t be too practical in Dawson: such a creature would disappear into the mud the first time its mistress set it down, if it avoided being eaten once the bigger dogs got a look at it.
Now that I was thinking about it, I realized there had been a chill between Irene and Chloe over the last few days. Perhaps they’d had a falling out. Maybe I could cut Chloe loose while Irene was angry with her.
Soon a hush settled over the room; the audience knew what was coming. It was time for Irene’s first song. She slipped onto the stage hidden behind two enormous crimson fans carried by two crouching dancers, who looked rather silly doing so. Only her feet, clad in satin slippers, were visible, but as one, the men sighed with delight. The music of the five-piece orchestra rose to a crescendo, the crimson fans were swept to one side with a flourish, and Irene stood in centre stage, her face hidden behind a smaller version of the two fans. The men roared. The fan was lowered slowly, provocatively, and Irene peeked out. She was well into her thirties and somewhat stocky, but still pretty despite a face scarred by the effects of bitterly cold winds and a hard life. On stage and on the dance floor, she conveyed such a cheerful enthusiasm that all the men loved her. She was easily the most popular dance-hall girl in Dawson, which did wonders for my business.
Unfortunately, my business partner, Ray Walker, also loved Irene. Too much, I feared.
She flicked her fan back and forth across her face, and the men went wild.
“You know how to play with fire, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Constable Richard Sterling moved so quietly, even in his heavy boots, I hadn’t heard him come up beside me. Although I knew full well he only wanted to speak to me without everyone in the room hearing, I took an involuntary step back. At a good deal more than six feet with the bulk to match, Sterling always seemed to stand too close for comfort. He smelled of pipe smoke, boot polish and the mud of the streets.
“My son found you?” “We settled the lady in a room overhead. Mrs. LeBlanc’s
gentlemen employee tried to talk Mary out of leaving. I suspect you’ll find Mrs. LeBlanc on your doorstep tomorrow; she recognized Angus.”
We have a rather awkward relationship, Constable Sterling and I. I am, of course, not attracted to him at all, but somehow early in the morning, which is when my mind struggles towards sleep, I find myself thinking about him more than might be considered reasonable, and when he stands near me, my heart skips a beat or two, before wisely settling back into a sensible rhythm.
“I don’t waste my time worrying about Mrs. LeBlanc,” I said, concentrating on the activities on the stage, where the girls were flittering about behind Irene. Definitely time to get rid of Chloe—she tripped and barely avoided a collision with Ellie, who tossed her a filthy look. “You realize the situation the poor girl finds herself in?”
“Not that she said a single word to me, or even looked me in the eye. Angus didn’t understand why they needed a police escort. I sent him home, by the way.”
“Thank you. I have offered her my protection, for what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth a good deal, Fiona.” Sterling straightened his perfectly straight wide-brimmed hat in a gesture I recognized as meaning he was about to take his leave. “If removed, it would be much worse than never given. Good night.”
He took a step towards the door, hesitated and turned back. “That is a striking dress. Most becoming. Excuse me.” And he was pushing his way through the crowd.
If I were an imaginative