CHAPTER 9

"The boots that these prints belong to are sold all over the city," John Brackenreid was telling Murdoch in his office. "And they're popular with half of the Ward. I don't think we're going to get anywhere with them."

Murdoch pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "We just need a break," he said. "One thing, that could blow this entire case wide open."

"Maybe I could be of assistance with that, Detective," a voice spoke up from Murdoch's doorway. The two men looked up to see Nina Bloom, in a long green dress and wide-brimmed hat. "Apologies," she said, pointing back at the admitting desk. "The constable up front said I could come right in."

"I'm sure," Murdoch muttered. "Miss Bloom, it's nice to see you again," he said civilly.

"Always a pleasure," Nina said with a smile. "Tell me, have you heard from George at all? He told me he was going undercover at Parkington Whiskey, to try to flush out a murderer."

Murdoch and John exchanged a look. "Nothing that would concern you, Miss Bloom," Murdoch told her, reminding himself that George was sweet on the dancer, not that it gave him an excuse to tell her everything.

"Well, I may have something that would concern you," Nina told him, and explained her encounter with Ken Smith at the Star Room.

"Did you get a chance to examine the bottles?" John asked her.

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. I needed to make a quick escape from Mr. Smith before he got any ideas. From where I was, however, everything appeared normal. The packaging and the crate all looked the same as our usual deliveries from the distillery-brown bottle, regular label."

"Then how do you know there's anything unusual?"

Nina looked at him. "Because Ken wouldn't make a big deal out of it or have Mike pay extra for it if there wasn't something he wanted noticed about it. Ken is not subtle, in any sense of the word."

Murdoch leaned back in his chair, thinking. "Miss Bloom, would you be able to procure a sample of that delivery for us?"

"We're not normally allowed to sample without it coming out of our pay," Nina said, "but I think I could charm a bottle off Mike for you."

"Excellent. Perhaps it has something to do with our murder victim," Murdoch said.

"Or it could be something else entirely," John pointed out.

Murdoch grimaced. "Let's hope not. There's far too much happening at Parkington the way it is."

The evening bell rang and George wiped the sweat off his forehead, wishing he hadn't dropped his hat near a rainwater barrel on the pretext of needing to come back for it later. Shadows were just starting to fall around the distillery as he waited in line with his Irish friends, who were becoming much more chatty around him, until it was his turn to punch out. He looked around for Alfie Dwyer, but didn't see the older gentleman anywhere. The place was beginning to clear out; obviously, no one wanted to be here any longer than they needed to be.

George punched out and made a show of needing to find his hat. It earned him a few strange looks, but no more strange than anybody else got around Parkington Whiskey. He circled back to the grain storage house, and nearly ran headlong into Alexander Martin.

The bigger man eyed him. "Jennings. What're you doing poking around here?"

It took George a moment to realize his cover was still intact. "Oh." George pointed to his hair. "Hat's gone missin'," he said. "Only one I got, missus'll have my hide if I don't bring it back."

Martin stared at him, and George held his gaze for as long as he could stand it. "Well, it ain't in there," Martin told him. "I didn't see anything when I was locking up."

"A-are you sure?" George played it up. "Maybe under a wheelbarrow, o-or-"

"No."

George swallowed. "Right. I-I'll just check round here then," he stammered. "Go faster if you helped me look, sir," he said.

Martin rolled his eyes. "I've got better things to do than help you find your hat. Find the damn thing and get out of here."

"Right," George said again, grinning inwardly. It had work exactly the way he had wanted it to go. Martin brushed past him, heading for the exit, bumping him in the shoulder as he went. George waited until Martin had gone around the corner and then made a beeline for the barrel, retrieving his hat. He looked around. Coast is clear. He dashed across the plaza, heading for the fermentation building. "Mr. Dwyer?" he called out in a whisper, looking around. The whisper seemed too loud in the silence. His footsteps echoed around the plaza. He rounded the corner between the main office and the building, looking around. "Mr. Dwyer? It's George."

He heard footsteps and turned. It was the last thing he remembered.

Nina slapped the handcuffs on Lydia Hall's gloved arm and Lydia fixed her with a pout. Out in the audience, the music swelled and a scattering of applause echoed around the room. Nina pointed a finger at Nina and wagged it side to side before throwing a smile and a wink over her shoulder as she escorted Lydia offstage. The piano finished with a flourish and there were cheers and applause rampant throughout the crowd.

"Great crowd tonight!" Lydia enthused as Nina unlocked the cuff. "That fella in the front row, he was staring the whole time!"

"You ought to go say hello," Nina encouraged her friend.

"You think?" Lydia said hopefully.

"Absolutely," Nina said, shirking her constable's jacket backstage, revealing a bright pink bustier with black lacing. Part of her felt bad for encouraging Lydia-the other woman had horrid luck with men. "You go on, I'll be sure to stick to the back of the room," she teased. Lydia hit her playfully on the arm and disappeared out the side door. Nina put her costume away, her mind thinking about her assignment from Detective Murdoch. If she was spotted back in storage, she'd have a hard time explaining herself. Not that they'll ever fire me, she grinned. But this is for George.

There were shouts from the bar-and not the usual hoots and hollers for the girls onstage. Then, the piano came to a halt. Nina ran from the back, throwing a filmy black shawl over her shoulders as she did. Someone was calling for an ambulance, and a crowd had gathered up near the bar. Onstage, Valerie had her hands over her mouth staring in horror at something in front of the crowd. Nina pushed her way to the front of the group and looked.

A man lay on the ground as if he'd fallen backwards off his stool. Glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, a glass clutched in his fingers. Nina's eyes darted around the area, looking for—and there it was. Taking advantage of the chaos, her fingers latched around the neck of the bottle of Parkington Whiskey Michael had been serving out of. She stuck it in her shawl, then stood back, waiting for help to arrive.

Detective Murdoch arrived ten minutes later with his wife in tow, along with Constables Brackenreid, Higgins, and Jackson. The bigger Jackson pushed the crowd back as John began taking statements. Murdoch and Julia studied the body.

"Death was clearly something internal," Julia noted, nodding to the blood coming from the man's nose. "That's not enough from a punch or a hit, or from falling to the floor. I'll know more after the postmortem." She wrinkled her nose as something wafted toward her. "His breath smells awful, like alcohol and…something else."

"Jackson," Murdoch called. The constable came over to give Julia a hand with the body. Murdoch turned his attention to the bartender. "What did you see?" he questioned him.

The bartender looked shaken. "I-nothing, I swear! Sam was fine, one moment, he was catcalling Valerie onstage…but then he started clutching his chest, and breathing real fast. He tried to say something, but didn't get it out before he fell off his chair."

Murdoch looked around. "What was he drinking?" he asked.

"Just whiskey. The bottle is…" The bartender frowned, looking up and down the bar. "Well, it was here," he said.

"Could someone have put something in his drink?"

"Not that I saw, but it gets busy up here when Val's up there in those feathers," the bartender pointed out.

Murdoch glanced at the stage, saw the woman in question talking to John. Out of the corner of his eye, the detective spotted Nina Bloom standing away from the crowd, her arms wrapped around her middle. She caught his eye. "My constable should be over here shortly," Murdoch said. "Don't go anywhere."

He made his way through the crowd and over to Nina. "What have you, Miss Bloom?" he asked.

Nina glanced around before passing him the whiskey bottle she'd snagged off the countertop. "I don't know if it's what Sam drank, but it was what was out," she said. She shivered. "Have you heard from George tonight?" she asked the detective.

Someone grabbed Murdoch by the arm, and the detective turned to see George Crabtree behind him, using a table to prop himself up, a gash bleeding across his cheek below his eye.

"Oh, George!" Nina gasped, ducking around Murdoch to help George into a chair.

The constable managed a shaky grin. "Don't suppose Dr. Ogden could come back this way?" he asked wearily. "I think I might need a stitch or two."