by Kin S. Law
Hargreaves got back to the Schwartzhaus with plenty of time to spare, but her dirty, bloodied clothes caused Captain Ivanov to go into quite a state. He immediately called for all the ramps to be withdrawn and the ship to lift off, and with a good number of harsh Russian expletives. Hargreaves expected huge Cyrillic letters to float burning across the docks as the huge captain pointed and hollered to his men. His concern was frankly quite endearing.
It took a few minutes for Zampano to settle Hargreaves back in her cabin, but by then preparations were almost ready for the ship to leave. Twilight purpled the sky, and it was a bad time to leave, really, for any airship. Storm clouds dusted the horizon, and the sea was ominously dark. Hargreaves uttered some apology for interrupting Zampano’s trade, to assurances that Russians were incredibly efficient and also cared little what others thought of them. Zampano stood in the doorway, a little awkwardly for a moment, before adding a final word.
“I am sorry you did not get your man,” said Zampano Ivanov. “You must be very disappointed.”
“Just gutted,” said Hargreaves. “Can’t be helped. Good night, Ivanov. I am very tired.”
“Good night, Inspector,” said Zampano. “I will order my men not to disturb you.”
“Thank you.”
Hargreaves closed the door of her cabin and slumped into the stiff cot. The porthole outside was blurry, streaked with a sudden rain. Hargreaves watched the Verdurous slowly get pulled into the storm brewing beneath its keel. She felt glad to be on her way, and glad she was aboard an airship high above that dreadful bilge. The cot felt good and hard, a lot like the ones in the Yard barracks.
Five minutes later the Schwartzhaus’ deck tipped as it veered north, away from the Verdurous and on towards New York. An empty glass globe rolled across the floor of Vanessa Hargreaves’ cabin and came to rest against her clothing locker, which was well-stowed and placed under the washstand, which faced the cot. For that brief respite before the storm, her face rested against the thin pillow. Hargreaves was dead to the world, and she could not be happier for it.
Later, when she went to the mess for dinner and Zampano’s men came in to batten down the porthole, one of them remarked on the odd stain against the side of the inspector’s washstand. Under bandages stained brown by old blood, the metal of the sink was the crimson of pomegranates.
5
New York, the Luminescent Cabaret
Stan Burgess’ Luminescent Cabaret sat like a glittering jewel in the coal-heap of the Bowery. Vanessa Hargreaves hadn’t arrived in New York more than three days earlier, but she felt such places drew her like a moth to the flame.
The neighborhood in New York smacked of Whitechapel for its cheap sleaze, doorjamb dealers, and closeted charlatans. It held a touch of Camden Town, full of starving artisans, craftsmen, and academics. Only, instead of knackered booths under thin tarpaulins and the lapping sounds of canals under vandalized steel bridges, Hargreaves found the shady characters of the Bowery nestled on sunken stoops of tenement buildings, amidst a constant clatter underfoot of what the Yanks called a ‘subway.’ Unlike the proper underground, and the Camden Town she found a ready analogue for, everything had the peripheral glint of gang markings she did not know, boundaries she never felt in the crossing. The dirigible flutter of passing peacekeepers overhead offered no reassurance.
Flickering lamps made the nightclub feel almost like an oasis. Hargreaves’ long, ebony limousine steamed up to it, giving her a good long look. A red-robed sidewalk offered a long queue of finely dressed bourgeoisie waiting to see Lumina Von Venus, in the act that had gripped the ton in a fever of burlesque passion. The building had been a theater, hosting everything from magic acts to the first picture-screens, but the rain-streaked marquee held only four words now, three rows high. Stan Burgess had spared no expense.
Hargreaves marveled at the irony of Gotham. Two blocks away from the mink-swathed ladies in their pearl collars and the bearded top-hats reeking with ambergris were men who sold coca, who would sooner shank a customer than give him his change. Coca was illegal in the free state of New York, and in thirty other states, a fact that stymied some Brits from even crossing the pond—they were used to their afternoon pickup. A bit of digestive, or a headache remedy.
“Burgess is expecting me,” she said to the large wall of meat blocking the underwhelming front door. The bouncer molested her with his eyes before letting her pass through the ornamental glass and thick curtains. Inside the spacious lobby, Hargreaves made out the posters of the acts on display: Rocket Rand in the Object of Self, Cammie Alberta in The Whimsical Mr. Murderer, Jeanne Pauletta in the Sweetish Sickness and other toffish, avant-garde titles. Everything was tastefully lit, with crystal lamps on walls patterned with orange blossoms, above varnished oak wainscoting.
A magnificent candle chandelier dripped slowly into its own wax pans high above. It cast its light through a hexagonal contraption of tinted glass onto vague Judaica moldings, likely a remnant of Gotham’s construction magnates. In quite post-modern fashion, and in keeping with the avant-garde subject material, there were carved marble teats at the bar, dispensing drinks. A grand stair framed the lobby along the walls, and directly between them was the oil poster for the main attraction: Lumina Von Venus, in Beethoven’s Fifth. She stood clad in bowler hat and white coattails, the very picture of demure seduction. Vanessa shifted uncomfortably. Where had she seen those bedroom eyes before?
Shaking the déjà vu from her eyes, Hargreaves focused herself. She hadn’t allowed the boys at the precinct to dress her up in this slinky Parisian couture to impress the society Gothamites, and she certainly wasn’t about to stand still and let the bored diplomats and dirigible barons get an eyeful. It hasn’t even got a bustle! Vanessa found herself thinking, swishing her hands in the general area. Her backside had never been more exposed, even though she was accustomed to trousers.
Sure enough, when the coat-check girl took her knee-length pea coat, more than a few coiffed heads turned to get a gander. A Rhône-red, ankle-length burst of ruffles bloomed above her sweetheart bust, barely veiled by a modish gear-print shawl and matching, elbow-length sable gloves. Her hairpiece was a raven feather, a flower of iridescent ebony round a glittering garnet that showered a cluster of lesser gems in a netted veil over her left eye. Her hair was a torrent of gold over her bare back.
Paying no attention to the gaping apes, Vanessa Hargreaves marched her coal-black Flamme Regale heels across the lush carpeting, up the flight of stairs with the gilded railing, and onto the mezzanine, refusing all offers of assistance. The prim, slender fingers trailed the railing on the right and her small rose-red pocketbook in the left, with her lipstick, powder, and .22 Tranter inside. The suits attempting to show her to the box were visibly stunned by her appearance, a fact Hargreaves counted on; she wanted maximum impact for Burgess, a man famed for his feminine indulgences.
“Mister Burgess will be along when the show begins,” the usher told her once her derriere touched down pertly on the plush box seating. The luxuriously Old Victorian box with the bucket of French champagne startled her for its existence in the middle of New York. When the uniformed servant left the box, she relaxed her tense shoulders and allowed herself the luxury of reminiscing.
Vanessa Hargreaves had taken the one route she could, to Mirkwood-on-Thames, where the sky was dark with the clouds of airships amidst the forest mooring towers. She took Alphonse with her, and Sergeant Cook’s plague-ridden corpse on his back. Ships of all makes and often dubious origins berthed at the Mirkwood, everything from bloated German touring zeppelins to the exotic dragons of Chinese junks, the wings of their sails veined with battens. She was quite sure one would take her to America. Or if not, another pirate port where she could find a way there.
Since the train thieves had been caught and her act of sabotage had not yet danced the telegraph tightrope, it was a simple matter to barter passage with an old friend; Zampano Ivanov, Russian airship commander turned Siberian prison wa
rden, turned dirigible merchantman after the Mordemere cataclysm. The old Russian bear had a perverted sense for profit, and with the Ottomans ready to swarm, he had jumped on the bandwagon.
“Hargreaves! Velcome!” Ivanov had embraced Hargreaves with a grizzly hug in front of dozens of dock passers-by. “Have to claim territory, see, or other aeronauts will not leave you alone. Some have not seen a woman in months. Da?”
“Da, Ivanov, da,” Hargreaves laughed with the gruff, bearded giant. Ivanov had shed his furs in the relatively warm English climate, but his beard and bursting businessman’s vest set him apart as much as a wolf’s pelt would have.
“Who is she, Ivanov?” came a voice from Ivanov’s shadow. Out stepped a short, limber woman in a rainbow-embroidered kaftan. Tumbling gypsy locks reminded Vanessa of Rosa’s, only these were so black they gleamed blue, framing a creamy brown face. Ribbons and intricate braided cloth decorated her from veiled head to bare feet. Cinching at the ankles finished a billowing garment not quite trousers, yet not quite a skirt.
“Inspe… Vanessa Hargreaves. Knew her through yellow dog,” Ivanov said.
“She won’t be in our way?” the woman named Vera said suspiciously, glancing at the golden hair, the too-pale skin of the London native. Her eyes were like flat onyx.
“Not in the least, Miss Vera,” Hargreaves said, extending the olive branch.
“Miss Vera?” the little lady repeated, as if the polite title had been inconceivable a moment ago. She cannot be more than twenty-four, Hargreaves thought at the time, and a petite one at that. Just looking at the girl’s hips made her trousers feel tight. Something bothered her about Vera, but she could not place a finger on it.
“Vera Jasper. Make with the friendly,” Ivanov had said, and shooed the two of them aboard. As it happened, Zampano Ivanov’s new ship, a refurbished German zeppelin called the Schwartzhaus, was bound for New York. She carried a load of British tea, Egyptian linens, and a caravan of Romani, which explained the origin of Vera.
New York was a fine destination, a hub of all things illicit. Hargreaves would simultaneously be in exile and able to investigate Feerick’s employer. Hopefully it would be enough. She had had plenty of time to think about the sticky treacle that was now her life. Hargreaves knew she was acting against orders, but she also thought Her Majesty would not operate without some secret agenda. It was entirely possible Her Majesty had engineered all of this, like some benevolent watchmaker. Or some diabolical chess master….
The Ottomans were just reaching northward into German and Russian papers. Small skirmishes in the guise of pirate raids, the incidents were nonetheless harbingers of a concerted effort to push for strategic bases in a future war. Sergeant Cook’s resting place was now a wild card, leverage the Queen could use all the better for its being in one of her agents’ hands.
In the meantime, Hargreaves was forced to while away the time spent traveling the Atlantic. True to form, Ivanov employed a crew of skilled men, mainly his former Siberians. Ivanov employed Vera Jasper in the roles of navigator, ship’s hand, cook, and all manner of odd jobs.
The journey proved smooth, and the springtime Atlantic was as peaceful and calm as could be asked for. The only memorable incident came near the beginning of the journey, towards twilight one evening when Hargreaves stood at the railing watching Mamadu shoot gulls. He wielded a bowgun in the same way Hargreaves would a rifle, seeking and taking down the circling birds so they fell onto the deck. Later, they would be roasted in the ship’s galley, their fishy flavor not unpalatable to Hargreaves’ tastes.
Tracking one of these animals, Hargreaves suddenly marked a speck of twinkling, sapphire light in the distance, too low to be the North Star and in the wrong direction. It threw out mirages of strange lights, in all different colors, and though Hargreaves pretty much knew what it was, she felt the need to voice her doubts. Somehow, having someone else confirm it made the illusion solidify in her mind.
“What is that?” she asked aloud, and was startled when the high voice of Vera Jasper answered.
“That is the Laputian Leviathan shimmering in the sky,” Vera said directly to Hargreaves’ right, causing her to whirl about. “They call it the Sargasso Siren here in the Atlantic, or the Sargasso Scourge, for the illusions it casts on all the ships passing under it.”
“A scourge?” Hargreaves had said, thinking of her own role in creating it. It must have drifted there, borne on the aeons’ own unfathomable currents.
“Yes. It is only a misnomer. It is more curiosity than scourge, and only those willfully entering the Sargasso Seas succumb to it. The effect is pleasant to watch.”
Hargreaves thought she could see the shadow of the Union Jack in the shimmering light, and perhaps a softer shadow of a pirate zeppelin somewhere underneath. She shook the image out of her head.
The crossing took about three weeks, with a good tailwind, and during that time Hargreaves formulated a plan of sorts. It was only because of the intricate cubbyholes that riddled the Schwartzhaus that Hargreaves was able to hide both the Cook box and Alphonse. Once the customs agents in their crisp uniforms were gone, Hargreaves could look out the portholes and see a magnificent Ferris Wheel spinning gently over a cloud of fanciful lights and fairy floss. Bright Tesla arclights worked into words proclaimed it the ‘Wonder Wheel.’
Alphonse and Sergeant Cook safely hidden, she took the King’s County train line to the British embassy in Manhattan. With the right confidence, name-dropping, and a reliance on the nature of Britons to be Britons, she managed to convince the diplomats she was British Intelligence, and they put her in contact with inspectors in the New York Police Department. Oddly, the inspectors were only called ‘detectives,’ which put Hargreaves unpleasantly in mind of Arturo C. Adler.
Detectives Sancho Ortega and Frank Ferrera were the equivalent of Firearms Division back at the old Metropolitan. The two men were carbon copies of each other in brown and ruddy, with identical mustaches and identical paunches. They spent a lot of time with their eyes on her bodice and legs, an involuntary response she nevertheless took vanity in, and advantage of. Certainly they were sharp. No amount of cleavage would make them miss the .22 in her shoulder holster.
Apparently, the partners were something of a black sheep in the department. Most of the officer material had names like Kelly or Connor, not Ortega or Ferrera. Hargreaves took all of two minutes to figure out she had been foisted onto the pair as some kind of routine abuse, and that they were taking it in stride. As gratitude, she was a little more liberal with her assets than normal, but it didn’t take much strutting and posing to make them show her to one of the major suppliers of illicit automata parts in the country. Black as the night were Stanley Burgess’ dealings, and Hargreaves felt a distinctly feminine intuition she would find some kind of clue about the Cook box at his Luminescent Cabaret.
“That is Burgess’ own pleasure palace,” Ortega said from the anonymity of a squad cruiser. Desertion of the native fauna and the quieted Tesla lighting made the daytime facade of the Cabaret seem camouflaged against the Bowery, a sleeping predator with its colors hidden in a restless crouch. The three lawmen studied the place from the cab of a powerful Feint Stallion. Occasionally a grubby-looking informant would come by and deliver a report on the neighborhood. Once, a beat uniform appeared and immediately turned away. He’d recognized the car, and didn’t respect the pair even as much as the vagrant had.
“Most of the automata deals are far out of our jurisdiction. Our colleagues on the take turn a blind eye to the petty crimes,” Ferrera said after one such exchange. He didn’t so much as drop a ‘fuggedaboutit’ but there was a definite confidence exuding from him, a New York bravado Hargreaves found pleasantly soothing. Were he a stone lighter, and some years younger, her honor would have been sorely tested.
“He’s snug as a bug with the top brass,” Ferrera said. “Burgess is well connected with Ubic, the American arm of Ubique. Obviously they can’t declare the alliance openly, but it’
s rumored old Stan owns a good portion of the company through dummy firms. Ubique also sponsors the precinct’s basketball team.”
“Everything from our uniforms to our calculating engines comes from Ubique.” Detective Ortega, by contrast, was soft-spoken and gentlemanly in his Latin accent, somehow disarming in how welcoming he appeared. The inspector knew the type, a friendly uncle who spoke cleanly and smoked much.
Rumors of the criminal strata in the Big Apple were notorious. From derelict to dirigible, scoundrels of all kinds found a home amidst the sunburst ziggurats of the city. Chinese triad syndicates made backroom deals with Italian mafia. Bowery minnows hawked cheap whores to Wall Street sharks. In a city as fraught with corruption and deceit as New York, Hargreaves guessed the strange duo had been put together, and assigned to her, a foreigner, because they were not good old boys. They likely were as honest as could be found.
“But?” she prompted.
“But we all know what the deals are. Prostitution, obviously, though he lets the girls run the cabaret. Very high-class, too, so I hear,” Ortega said.
“Smokescreen. Pimp is a pimp,” Ferrera disagreed.
“Illicit substances,” Ortega continued as if his partner weren’t there. “Coca and poppy, mainly. Most of the muscle on the lower east side is his. He also supplies smaller gangs with equipment, sometimes….”
“Automata weapons,” Hargreaves answered, glimpsing the black portion of her plan. “Right, boys. How do you think I can get in to see him?”
The two detectives looked her over, and Hargreaves blushed; she regularly used her charms for her own gain, but this was something different.