Carts and wagons manouevred ponderously past and round each other as they
made their deliveries to the hotel. Horses stamped and blew in the dust-
clogged road as they impatiently lingered at the curb; drivers shouted
imprecations at each other in between crooning endearments to their
animals. Most pedestrians kept to the far side of the street to avoid the
crush.
Elliott Marston waited in the alley, scanning the congested street for signs of uniformed policemen and finding none. Presumably they were all in the hotel lobby. He looked up at the window he had just climbed out of. A grinning Melvin Collins leaned out and waved. Marston smiled back, then headed for the street.
He walked quickly, careful to keep the wagons between him and the hotel entrance. Carters looked at him with idle curiousity as he passed. The large windows of the bar and dining room flashed past on his left. He could see the entrance to the hotel stableyard ahead; three policemen stood watching the rear doors of the hotel. His mouth tightened grimly. It had been a good idea to avoid the back.
The traffic thinned out as he left the hotel behind. Now it was ladies doing their morning shopping that crowded his path. Marston pulled his hat low over his eyes and danced through them, mindful not to attract too much attention. He hazarded glances to his right and left. It appeared to be working; he might have been invisible as far as his fellow pedestrians were concerned.
"Mister Marston!"
Damn. He slowed his pace and looked cautiously in front of him. It was the seamstress who had prepared Sam's wedding outfit.
"How was the wedding, Mister Marston? I do hope everything went well. You certainly had beautiful weather for it, don't you think?" She beamed at him from the doorway of her shop. Some of the other shoppers turned to look at them.
Marston stepped quickly to her side and leaned against the doorframe. "Well, well, how good to see you again! How have you been keeping?"
The woman blinked in surprise at the warmth of his greeting. "Why.why, just fine, thank you. And how is Mrs. Marston?"
He took two steps forward, forcing her to back up into her shop. "She's just fine. That was a truly beautiful dress you created for her."
The seamstress' smile broadened. "Oh my yes. She looked just wonderful. But a happy bride is a beautiful bride, I always say."
"And I'm sure you're right." Marston sidled around her and closed the door with a quick slam. "In fact, I was wondering just this morning if you had any other, er, things that she could wear during the day for, uh, shopping or going out."
The seamstress was positively radiant now. "I most surely do. We just got some lovely peach fabric just last month and I wasn't sure what to do with it. You see, none of my regulars could wear it but it would look lovely on Mrs. Marston. Now where did I put it?" She skittered through the hanging curtains at the back of the shop and disappeared from view. Her voice carried on loud and clear. "Oh my yes. It's just perfect for a honey blonde like your wife. Abigail! Abigail where did we put the peach? You remember?" Her footsteps rapped across the floor into the back depths of the building.
Marston slid to the window and peered through the lace curtains. Two policemen were walking down the street, from the direction of the hotel. At least one of them he recognized from his post guarding the alley to the hotel stables. He stepped back quickly.
By now the police would know he wasn't in the hotel. They would look for him that much harder because he'd managed to give them the slip. And they would search the most obvious places for him first.
Which made it imperative that he get to the office of Jasper Connaught at the First Commercial Bank of Western Australia as fast as humanly possible.
The seamstress' voice was still audible but her words were indistinct. Three strides took him to the hanging curtains she'd disappeared through earlier. He found himself in the sewing area: tapes and reels of colored threads were piled on a long counter against the wall, a full-length mirror was propped in a corner and bolts of fabric in dozens of hues were piled to the ceiling. Two windows with panes of cracked glass looked out over a small garden surrounded by a high fence with a gate. He focused on the gate.
No door to the garden was apparent in the sewing room. He glided across the floorboards as gently as he could to a curved archway and peered around. It was a kitchen even smaller than the garden and at the far end, the back door.
Marston discarded his concern about being overheard. To bound across the room, wrench open the door and cross the garden was with him the work of an instant. There he was checked: the latch was solidly fastened with rusted wire. Obviously the seamstress hadn't used the back lane for some time. There was no hope for it. He would have to climb. He had just attained the top of the fence when the seamstress appeared in the kitchen.
"Mr. Marston! What are you doing? I found the fabric." She stared in perplexity at him.
"That's just fine! You make up a nice suit for Mrs. Marston and we'll be around to collect it.oh.let's say next week." He assumed the confident manner of a businessman who wasn't sitting uncomfortably on a narrow board fence. "I'm sure whatever you do will be just fine." He waved jovially and dropped to the other side. Her spluttering remonstrances followed him over the fence.
He landed on his feet with a soft thud. A swift glance around his person showed no appreciable damage to his wardrobe. He grimaced; showing up at his bank in torn clothing would not be helpful to his interests.
In fact, he thought as he began walking again, he'd better start thinking about what would be helpful to his interests.
While he could still do so outside of jail.
Elliott Marston waited in the alley, scanning the congested street for signs of uniformed policemen and finding none. Presumably they were all in the hotel lobby. He looked up at the window he had just climbed out of. A grinning Melvin Collins leaned out and waved. Marston smiled back, then headed for the street.
He walked quickly, careful to keep the wagons between him and the hotel entrance. Carters looked at him with idle curiousity as he passed. The large windows of the bar and dining room flashed past on his left. He could see the entrance to the hotel stableyard ahead; three policemen stood watching the rear doors of the hotel. His mouth tightened grimly. It had been a good idea to avoid the back.
The traffic thinned out as he left the hotel behind. Now it was ladies doing their morning shopping that crowded his path. Marston pulled his hat low over his eyes and danced through them, mindful not to attract too much attention. He hazarded glances to his right and left. It appeared to be working; he might have been invisible as far as his fellow pedestrians were concerned.
"Mister Marston!"
Damn. He slowed his pace and looked cautiously in front of him. It was the seamstress who had prepared Sam's wedding outfit.
"How was the wedding, Mister Marston? I do hope everything went well. You certainly had beautiful weather for it, don't you think?" She beamed at him from the doorway of her shop. Some of the other shoppers turned to look at them.
Marston stepped quickly to her side and leaned against the doorframe. "Well, well, how good to see you again! How have you been keeping?"
The woman blinked in surprise at the warmth of his greeting. "Why.why, just fine, thank you. And how is Mrs. Marston?"
He took two steps forward, forcing her to back up into her shop. "She's just fine. That was a truly beautiful dress you created for her."
The seamstress' smile broadened. "Oh my yes. She looked just wonderful. But a happy bride is a beautiful bride, I always say."
"And I'm sure you're right." Marston sidled around her and closed the door with a quick slam. "In fact, I was wondering just this morning if you had any other, er, things that she could wear during the day for, uh, shopping or going out."
The seamstress was positively radiant now. "I most surely do. We just got some lovely peach fabric just last month and I wasn't sure what to do with it. You see, none of my regulars could wear it but it would look lovely on Mrs. Marston. Now where did I put it?" She skittered through the hanging curtains at the back of the shop and disappeared from view. Her voice carried on loud and clear. "Oh my yes. It's just perfect for a honey blonde like your wife. Abigail! Abigail where did we put the peach? You remember?" Her footsteps rapped across the floor into the back depths of the building.
Marston slid to the window and peered through the lace curtains. Two policemen were walking down the street, from the direction of the hotel. At least one of them he recognized from his post guarding the alley to the hotel stables. He stepped back quickly.
By now the police would know he wasn't in the hotel. They would look for him that much harder because he'd managed to give them the slip. And they would search the most obvious places for him first.
Which made it imperative that he get to the office of Jasper Connaught at the First Commercial Bank of Western Australia as fast as humanly possible.
The seamstress' voice was still audible but her words were indistinct. Three strides took him to the hanging curtains she'd disappeared through earlier. He found himself in the sewing area: tapes and reels of colored threads were piled on a long counter against the wall, a full-length mirror was propped in a corner and bolts of fabric in dozens of hues were piled to the ceiling. Two windows with panes of cracked glass looked out over a small garden surrounded by a high fence with a gate. He focused on the gate.
No door to the garden was apparent in the sewing room. He glided across the floorboards as gently as he could to a curved archway and peered around. It was a kitchen even smaller than the garden and at the far end, the back door.
Marston discarded his concern about being overheard. To bound across the room, wrench open the door and cross the garden was with him the work of an instant. There he was checked: the latch was solidly fastened with rusted wire. Obviously the seamstress hadn't used the back lane for some time. There was no hope for it. He would have to climb. He had just attained the top of the fence when the seamstress appeared in the kitchen.
"Mr. Marston! What are you doing? I found the fabric." She stared in perplexity at him.
"That's just fine! You make up a nice suit for Mrs. Marston and we'll be around to collect it.oh.let's say next week." He assumed the confident manner of a businessman who wasn't sitting uncomfortably on a narrow board fence. "I'm sure whatever you do will be just fine." He waved jovially and dropped to the other side. Her spluttering remonstrances followed him over the fence.
He landed on his feet with a soft thud. A swift glance around his person showed no appreciable damage to his wardrobe. He grimaced; showing up at his bank in torn clothing would not be helpful to his interests.
In fact, he thought as he began walking again, he'd better start thinking about what would be helpful to his interests.
While he could still do so outside of jail.