is Dobe’s name?” asked an interested Madam Darcel.
Thrusting the coat, hat and bandana into Calamity’s hands, Killem gave a warning growl. “You tell her and I’ll peel your hide. Get off home and leave me to round up the rest of the boys.”
“May I escort Calamity home, sir?” asked St. Andre stepping forward and remembering the girl’s statement that her boss and fellow workers treated her like their sister.
However, he need not have taken the trouble. With a grin, Killem nodded to the girl. “Try asking her, friend. She’ll damned soon say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
“Let’s go, Sherry,” Calamity said.
“Tuck your shirt in first and put on your coat, preferably with the buttons fastened,” replied St. Andre.
For the first time Calamity realised that at some point in the fight every button had been torn from the front of her shirt and its flap hung outside her pants. Showing no embarrassment, she made the necessary adjustments to her dress and finally pulled on her coat. Having worn a man’s vest under the shirt, Calamity knew she showed little that might raise eyebrows in polite society. Winking at Killem, she accepted St. Andre’s arm and walked from the Cheval D’Or .
At the end of Latour Street, St. Andre hailed a passing cab. He helped Calamity inside, then gave the driver instructions and swung up to sit by the girl. On the ride to the local station house, where they collected Calamity’s gunbelt and Navy Colt, St. Andre learned the cause of the fight.
“Madam Darcel’s honest, Calamity,” he told the girl. “She wouldn’t allow a pickpocket in her place—not for long anyway.”
“That one sure didn’t stop,” agreed Calamity. “Say, that Jacqueline was one tough kid. Was them kicks she gave me that sa—savate , or whatever you call it?”
“It was. I’ve seen Jacqueline at Duval’s and at the ChevalD’Or , she’s good, very good.”
Putting a hand to her nose, Calamity winced slightly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Not until the cab circled the edge of City Park did either Calamity or St. Andre mention the murder. However, while listening to Calamity’s discourse on the subject of Jacqueline’s fighting prowess, an idea began to form in St. Andre’s head. No matter how hard he tried to force the thoughts down, they kept recurring, nagging at him, yet he did not put them into words.
“What happened about the gal who got killed?” Calamity asked, glancing out of the cab’s window.
“I’m on the case now. Caiman has gone down with a convenient bout of fever and the Chief of Police put me in charge.”
“You’re a real lucky feller.”
“I wouldn’t say so. Both the Picayune and the Intelligencer , are after somebody’s blood over the failure to trap the Strangler. Unless he is caught soon, I fear my head will roll.”
“Which same’d be a right shame,” remarked Calamity. “We’d best start to think how we’ll lay hands on him.”
Although he relapsed into silence, St. Andre thought only indirectly about trapping the Strangler. On a visit to the Cheval D’Or , he had seen Jacqueline meet and defeat another skilled savate fighter. Knowing more than a little about foot-boxing himself, St. Andre could figure how rough tangling with Jacqueline was likely to be. Yet Calamity did tangle and defeated the slim girl. St. Andre already knew how tough and capable Calamity could act. Such a girl might—he let the rest of the thought trail off unused. Such a thing had never been done before, the risks were too great for him even to suggest his idea.
St. Andre moved restlessly and gave a low grunt of pain as his sore body protested.
“Aching a mite?” asked Calamity turning to look at him.
“I’ll be as stiff as a plank in the morning.”
“Got me a real good cure for that, happened you’d like to try it.”
“ Cherie , I would try anything. It is not good for a lawman to be stiff.”
“You can say that again,” grinned Calamity.
So St.
Thrusting the coat, hat and bandana into Calamity’s hands, Killem gave a warning growl. “You tell her and I’ll peel your hide. Get off home and leave me to round up the rest of the boys.”
“May I escort Calamity home, sir?” asked St. Andre stepping forward and remembering the girl’s statement that her boss and fellow workers treated her like their sister.
However, he need not have taken the trouble. With a grin, Killem nodded to the girl. “Try asking her, friend. She’ll damned soon say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
“Let’s go, Sherry,” Calamity said.
“Tuck your shirt in first and put on your coat, preferably with the buttons fastened,” replied St. Andre.
For the first time Calamity realised that at some point in the fight every button had been torn from the front of her shirt and its flap hung outside her pants. Showing no embarrassment, she made the necessary adjustments to her dress and finally pulled on her coat. Having worn a man’s vest under the shirt, Calamity knew she showed little that might raise eyebrows in polite society. Winking at Killem, she accepted St. Andre’s arm and walked from the Cheval D’Or .
At the end of Latour Street, St. Andre hailed a passing cab. He helped Calamity inside, then gave the driver instructions and swung up to sit by the girl. On the ride to the local station house, where they collected Calamity’s gunbelt and Navy Colt, St. Andre learned the cause of the fight.
“Madam Darcel’s honest, Calamity,” he told the girl. “She wouldn’t allow a pickpocket in her place—not for long anyway.”
“That one sure didn’t stop,” agreed Calamity. “Say, that Jacqueline was one tough kid. Was them kicks she gave me that sa—savate , or whatever you call it?”
“It was. I’ve seen Jacqueline at Duval’s and at the ChevalD’Or , she’s good, very good.”
Putting a hand to her nose, Calamity winced slightly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Not until the cab circled the edge of City Park did either Calamity or St. Andre mention the murder. However, while listening to Calamity’s discourse on the subject of Jacqueline’s fighting prowess, an idea began to form in St. Andre’s head. No matter how hard he tried to force the thoughts down, they kept recurring, nagging at him, yet he did not put them into words.
“What happened about the gal who got killed?” Calamity asked, glancing out of the cab’s window.
“I’m on the case now. Caiman has gone down with a convenient bout of fever and the Chief of Police put me in charge.”
“You’re a real lucky feller.”
“I wouldn’t say so. Both the Picayune and the Intelligencer , are after somebody’s blood over the failure to trap the Strangler. Unless he is caught soon, I fear my head will roll.”
“Which same’d be a right shame,” remarked Calamity. “We’d best start to think how we’ll lay hands on him.”
Although he relapsed into silence, St. Andre thought only indirectly about trapping the Strangler. On a visit to the Cheval D’Or , he had seen Jacqueline meet and defeat another skilled savate fighter. Knowing more than a little about foot-boxing himself, St. Andre could figure how rough tangling with Jacqueline was likely to be. Yet Calamity did tangle and defeated the slim girl. St. Andre already knew how tough and capable Calamity could act. Such a girl might—he let the rest of the thought trail off unused. Such a thing had never been done before, the risks were too great for him even to suggest his idea.
St. Andre moved restlessly and gave a low grunt of pain as his sore body protested.
“Aching a mite?” asked Calamity turning to look at him.
“I’ll be as stiff as a plank in the morning.”
“Got me a real good cure for that, happened you’d like to try it.”
“ Cherie , I would try anything. It is not good for a lawman to be stiff.”
“You can say that again,” grinned Calamity.
So St.
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