Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  “I read the paper this morning. They had a review of your show last night.”

  “Was it a good one?” Feigning nonchalance, Abe repositioned a slice of bread. He was never brave enough to read his reviews.

  “Yeah. They said you were mesmerizing and captivating.”

  He breathed a relieved sigh. “I’m happy to hear that.”

  Rosie made a humming noise and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. She wasn’t much past twenty but her path had been a difficult one, giving her a wisdom and gravitas unusual for her age. She liked to mother Abe now and then, even though he was twice her age and her employer to boot. He didn’t much mind, although now he sensed disapproval.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t do it—stand there and let someone shoot a gun at me. I’d run away.”

  “Ah, but it’s a trick, remember? Like our spirits.”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes it’s not so much of a trick though, is it? And even with tricks, things go wrong.”

  “You’ve withstood much scarier things than a little stage illusion, Rosie. I bet you could face an entire pride of lions without so much as a waver.”

  “Oh, you!” She laughed and waved away his comment, then finished the last bite of her sandwich and pushed the plate aside.

  Together they cleared the table, washed the dishes, and put them away. He thought she was through with the subject, but she paused as she was buttoning her coat. “It’s death, you know. Just one little twitch of a finger and bam! It’s all over. All the things you always wanted and now you’re never gonna get them, so those things are dead too. I couldn’t do it.”

  “Well, luckily you don’t have to.” He pasted on a smile and handed over her cloche. The smile became genuine as he watched her fuss to arrange it just so on her head. He handed her the little beaded purse she’d bought the previous week—straight from Paris, she’d told him breathlessly while showing it off. Rosie took a pair of white gloves from the purse and pulled them on.

  “One hour,” he reminded her before opening the back door.

  She winked at him. “On the dot.”

  By the time Rosie returned for the séance—through the front door, pretending they’d never met—several of the other guests had arrived. She stood with them at the long table at the back of the parlor, sipping watered wine and chatting quietly. She had a true talent for getting strangers to divulge their secrets and their feelings. Later she’d subtly indicate the most skeptical of them as well as the most gullible.

  Abe had already set up the chairs and props and now sat in a throne-like seat in the corner, trying to look otherworldly and mysterious even though his collar made his neck itch. He stood whenever the doorbell rang and greeted each newcomer with a deep bow and thick accent. He kissed the women’s hands and shook the men’s, automatically noting which of them blushed or lingered a bit over the contact. It was easier to deceive people who were too distracted by attraction to notice a sleight of hand.

  But Abe wasn’t prepared for one of the final guests to arrive: a tall, muscular man with a brutally handsome face and eyes the oddest shade of pale gray, as if they’d captured the city fog. Abe felt them pierce right through him. When they shook hands, Abe was the one to feel his cheeks heat. “Velcome,” he said, hoping to distract from his blush with a flourish of his hand. “I am Abe France, at your service.”

  “Thomas Donne.”

  Abe recognized the deep voice with an English accent. Donne had called just an hour earlier to ask whether he might join the afternoon séance. It was unusual for people to make appointments on such short notice, but since Abe had room, he’d allowed it. Besides, every dollar counted.

  Speaking of which, Donne was holding out a green bill. “You said five, correct?”

  “I did.” Abe palmed the money, intending to tuck it away later. That had been another of Emil’s many suggestions. Making the payments disappear set the mood much better than prosaically shoving them into a pocket or wallet. “I hope you vill find the fee vorthvhile.”

  Donne grunted and followed him down the narrow hall. Abe found it disconcerting to feel that solid gaze on his back. Although the scrutiny tensed his muscles, it hardened his cock as well, so he was grateful to duck behind a curtained cabinet when they reached the parlor. “Please help yourself to a refreshment,” he said, waving toward the table at the back. “Ve shall begin shortly.”

  After giving Abe a knowing look, Donne followed the instructions. Abe watched his movements: a solid sureness, as if he feared nothing and expected the world to bend to his will. When he reached the table, he hung his coat and hat on the rack and took a glass of watered wine but didn’t drink it. He didn’t mingle with the other guests either, although he examined them closely as he stood near the corner.

  What does he want? Abe had no time to find out. The doorbell rang as the last guests arrived, and then it was time to begin.

  “Vill you please take your seats?”

  Everyone scurried to obey except Donne, who finally drained his glass in one long swallow and then chose a chair in the back. He didn’t shift around, although he probably wasn’t comfortable. The scrutiny of those gray eyes remained both unsettling and exciting.

  Never mind that. It was time to work.

  “Velcome.” Abe spread his arms open.

  Years ago, Emil had spent weeks coaching Abe on his opening patter, refusing to teach a single illusion until he was satisfied. “What you say at the beginning is essential. You either hook them or you lose them, so your words must cast a spell.”

  After considerable practice, Abe had learned that the best way to engage his séance audience was to be as truthful as possible. So today, as usual, he spoke about the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead and the urge to pierce that veil. “Some of the living vish to see beyond, to have a glimpse of vhat lies beyond. But this is very dangerous. The power of the other side is greedy and jealous, and vonce it seizes us, it may not let go. It vill be as if you are standing on the edge of a great chasm—you feel quite safe, but vhen the edge begins to crumble, you find yourself stepping forvard instead of avay.”

  Some members of the audience shuddered and others nodded. Good. They were on the hook already. Donne remained unmoving and expressionless.

  After a brief pause, Abe continued. “But it is not only the living who might vish to breach the veil. Sometimes the dead vish this as vell. It may be because they are angry at having moved on, or frustrated they didn’t achieve vhat they hoped in life. Perhaps they blame others for their death. Or perhaps they have a final message they vish to convey.” He sighed deeply. “And a few feel the bonds of love so deeply that they continue to reach out, to clutch at those whom they’ve lost. These efforts are always clumsy—the dead have no place here—and may even endanger the living. The dead become the force that tempts us to step into the abyss.”

  An older woman began to cry, sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. That wasn’t unusual. The younger women beside her silently offered help, but the older one declined. Maybe she wanted to cry. It wasn’t often people had the chance to express grief outside of cemeteries and the confines of their homes.

  “Some of us,” Abe said, “vere born vith the ability to help others safely pierce the veil, but only for a few moments. I am one of those who vas granted this gift. I suspect this is because I had a tvin brother who died shortly before birth. My connection to him—in that indistinct time between not-life and life—forever tied me to the other vorld. I can touch it more safely than most, and I can assist the dead who vish to send a message. But friends, still this is not completely safe, you understand? Ve must tread vith care.”

  He had them all now. Except for Donne. This didn’t exactly worry Abe, because he knew how to handle a disbeliever. In fact, Abe’s methods could withstand almost any scrutiny, and responding to someone like Donne usually helped convince everyone else even more. That was why Rosie would play skeptic when the audience
seemed to waver. No need for that with Donne there, though.

  Abe looked calmly out at the room. “Is each of you prepared for this journey today?”

  They nodded and murmured, and Donne shot him a sharp, crooked smile.

  No two of Abe’s séances were the same. The variety kept him fresh and also meant a person could attend more than once without becoming bored or jaded. Today he began with a talking board, a plank of varnished wood painted with letters and a few simple words. After placing the board on top of his high table, Abe invited the crying woman to come forward. Then he handed her a wheeled planchette made of thin ivory. He’d had this set custom-made, preferring it to the Ouija boards that were mass-produced as parlor games.

  “Mrs. Teche, kindly place the planchette on the board and rest two fingers of your right hand upon it.” As she obeyed, he stepped back, demonstrating that he wasn’t controlling anything. “Now, please form a clear picture in your head of the deceased loved one vith whom you’d like to speak. Yes, very good. And formulate three or four qvestions. Make sure they can be answered quite simply—conversing across the veil is difficult.”

  Her brow furrowed in concentration, and then a determined expression settled over her features. “I’m ready.” Her voice was thin but firm.

  “Excellent. Pose your first question, please.”

  “Alice? This is your sister speaking. Oh, I miss you so.” Mrs. Teche sniffed but held her ground. “My grandson Philip is grown now and keeps telling me to invest my money in the stock market. He says we can become wealthy this way. Should I listen to him?”

  She waited.

  This wasn’t the most spectacular thing to do in a séance; nobody else in the audience could see the board. But it was quick and easy and nearly always worked. It didn’t even require trickery; the person’s unconscious mind would make the fingers move the planchette without the person being aware of it. And if nothing happened, it was simple: the spirits weren’t in the mood to communicate that way.

  Something did happen, however, as it usually did. The planchette rolled slowly across the plank until it stopped atop the word No.

  Abe read the result aloud for the sake of the audience. “It appears as if you should save your money, Mrs. Teche. Have you another question for dear Alice?”

  She had several, and the audience listened raptly as the board answered them. Donne, however, watched Abe instead, his head slightly cocked and his brows creased. His lips twitched every time their gazes caught.

  After Mrs. Teche was back in her seat—still sniffing, but looking satisfied—Abe chose a middle-aged man who wanted to speak to his dead father, with whom he’d had a falling-out in his youth.

  Then Abe moved on to another séance staple, the talking slate. There were a variety of methods to accomplish this particular illusion, some of which required help from a hidden accomplice. Lacking that today, Abe used a combination of sleight of hand and intuition about his guests, along with chalk-written messages that were vague enough to suit nearly anyone. Except for Donne, everyone else was fully hooked, and it took little effort to impress them.

  Abe was confused by Donne’s silence. Now and then someone was willing to pay good money to sit in a séance and carry on loudly about what hokum it all was. Abe was accustomed to handling those people. But Donne didn’t seem interested in disruption; he sat in the back where nobody but Abe could see his disbelieving smirk. It was frustrating and distracting not to know his intentions.

  When Abe was done with the slates, he would ordinarily have turned to the third and final act of the séance. It involved darkening the room, asking the audience to concentrate on their loved ones beyond the veil, and then operating a series of trap doors and curtains via hidden controls. Masks and gauzy drapery covered in luminescent paint would make flickering appearances. One key here was for his accomplice to have the first sighting. Rosie would gasp or scream before Abe had yet showed a prop, making everyone else eager for their own glimpses. The other key was to do this illusion after the guests had lost any lingering doubts.

  It was a wonderful illusion, one that would send his guests away feeling as if their money had been well spent. But today one guest continued to have doubts, and Abe’s curiosity was too strong to resist. He decided to postpone the finale.

  “Friends, I vill now move among you and see if I receive any messages from beyond.”

  Rosie lifted her eyebrows, clearly surprised he was going to do a cold reading. He generally did that only during séances where he’d given the guests a brief refreshment break and Rosie had the opportunity to slip him notes about the people she’d spoken with at the beginning. It certainly hadn’t been part of today’s plan.

  Nonetheless, Abe moved among the chairs with his head atilt, as if he were listening for a faint sound. He stopped in front of Rosie and closed his eyes. “Ah. I’m hearing a voice…. A woman. Mary? No. Margaret.”

  Rosie gasped and clutched her chest. “My sister Meg?” she asked tremulously. “She passed five years ago from rheumatic fever.”

  In fact, Rosie had two sisters—neither named Margaret and both quite alive—who she didn’t especially get along with and spoke to only infrequently. But she wobbled her chin convincingly as Abe nodded. “Yes. She says she misses you. She remembers the… the necklace you gave her for her birthday. It vas such a lovely gift, she says.”

  Tears started to leak from Rosie’s eyes. Crying convincingly on cue was one of her many strengths. “She loved that little thing. We buried her in it.”

  “She vants you to know that she’s very happy vhere she is now. She knows your life vill be long, but someday you shall see her again.”

  “Th-thank you, Mr. France. Tell her I love her too.”

  “She knows.”

  Abe moved down the row to a man in his fifties, a Mr. Van Goethem. He was dressed moderately well but not richly, and his weathered face and battered hands suggested he’d once labored outdoors. He had an accent—Dutch or Belgian; Abe wasn’t certain—but it wasn’t strong, so he’d been in the United States for a long time. These observations and a general knowledge of human beings allowed Abe to make some safe guesses.

  “I am hearing a woman again. She is…. I see the letter A?”

  “Anna?” Mr. Van Goethem seemed confused.

  “I am not sure. I believe the A is not at the beginning of her name.”

  Mr. Van Goethem let out a noisy sigh. “Johanna. My mother.”

  Perfect. Abe had chosen A simply because it was common in feminine names; after that, he could get the guest to lead him on the right path. “Yes, your mother. She says…. Oh.” He frowned deeply as if distressed.

  “What? What does she say? Mama, I—”

  Abe held up a hand to silence him. “It’s…. Oh, I see.” He bent so as to put his eyes on level with Mr. Van Goethem’s and lowered his voice as if to tell a secret. He knew his words would carry nonetheless. “She says she forgives you, sir. She knows you are a good man at heart. She is proud of you.”

  Mr. Van Goethem didn’t cry, but he clamped his lips together and his throat worked. He gave a jerky nod.

  This had been nothing but a guess. In Abe’s experience, nearly everyone had disappointed a parent at one point or another.

  At last, heart pounding, Abe moved to the back row and came to a halt in front of Donne. Standing this close, he could see a bit of pale stubble on those broad cheeks and stubborn chin. Donne’s eyes were more fog-like than ever: opaque and chilling. The type of eyes a man could get lost in. He sat straight-backed but not tense, heavy muscles relaxed beneath his cheap suit and good shirt. But his hands—yes. They hung over the armrests and moved with the hint of a tremor.

  Interesting.

  Without truly intending to, knowing it might even be dangerous, Abe reached out and settled a palm on Donne’s shoulder. Although Donne flinched slightly, he didn’t strike out or move away. His jaw tightened, though, and his eyes narrowed.

  The war, Abe thought. Yes.
Donne was the right age for it, and his accent thick enough to suggest he’d come of age in England instead of the United States. Besides, there was something about the set of his body and the creases around his eyes. “I hear… a man,” Abe began.

  And then he did.

  As clear as if the person stood next to him, a voice spoke in Abe’s ear. It sounded young and sad and thin. Tommy. Oh, my darling Tommy, what have they done to you?

  Abe unwillingly echoed a phrase, the words tearing his throat. “My darling Tommy.”

  Donne leapt to his feet, jerking back so violently that he toppled the chair. One hand went into his coat pocket, and Abe was certain he was about to be shot. The idea didn’t frighten him, mostly because he was too deeply awash in the spirit’s sorrow. “Don’t hurt him, Tommy.” From his own mouth, but it wasn’t his accent or his voice. “Please don’t.”

  The spirit… the man had been in his early twenties, perhaps. A pointed chin and sharp nose, thin mobile eyebrows, a wide mouth always a moment away from a cheeky grin. Ears that stuck out a little. Abe knew this although he couldn’t see the spirit. Just as he knew the spirit’s name. “Albert,” he said in his own voice.

  Donne jerked again but held his ground. He was breathing hard.

  Abe’s knees felt weak, his head swam, and Albert whispered in his head: tiny snippets and phrases that Abe couldn’t quite catch. Reaching out for a chair back to support himself, he became aware of the wide eyes and gaping mouths of his guests.

  With considerable effort, he gathered his wits, giving Donne a quick apologetic glance before striding to the front of the room. “I am sorry, friends. Today the spirits have qvite exhausted me. I hope you have found some of the answers you sought.”

  The guests seemed pleased as they gathered their coats and hats and filed toward the hallway and the door. They thanked Abe as they shook his hand. Soon only two others remained: Rosie, looking about as if perhaps she’d mislaid a glove, and Donne, towering and jut-jawed in the back of the room.