“I need to ask you an important question.”
This would be something about discretion. About his family, or her lover. Or maybe Ari had let slip about the tar, hang him, and now Cyril had some kind of opinion about her running, some kind of bargain he wanted to strike. She waited, one eyebrow arched.
But all he said was, “Musk, or vetiver?”
“Sorry?”
He took a flat, white box from the pocket of his greatcoat. “I guessed the latter, but if you don’t like it, I’m sure we can find you something suitable.”
She pulled the ribbon out of its knot and opened the box, revealing a wide bottle of pale perfume. The glass was unmarked except for a thin gold band at the base. Etched into the metal, she read the perfumer’s name: Alain de Nils.
“It’s an odd fragrance,” said Cyril, “but it reminded me of you. May I?” He held out a hand, and Cordelia surrendered the bottle, flattered but suspicious, thinking of the twelve-bit bottle of attar of roses she wore near-daily. She’d left it off this morning, in her hurry, and was suddenly glad.
“It’s not as sweet as what you wore the other day,” he said, confirming her fear. She pressed her lips together, ready to sling a bit of sass—who’d he think she was, a Harbor Terrace lady?—but he already had the bottle open.
When he waved the ground glass stopper under her nose, she jerked back, surprised. “Smells like a diesel engine.”
“Give it a moment,” he said, lifting her wrist to stripe the scent across her veins. “Let it settle for a while.”
“So,” she said, “why the perfume?” Oh, Ari was going to get a hiding tonight. What exactly did this swell expect from her?
“I can’t give a beautiful woman a beautiful present?”
She twisted her wrist, letting the shrinking wet streak catch the light. “You didn’t like what I usually wear.”
“Any woman can wear roses,” he said. “But I want you to stand out a little. And I think you wouldn’t mind it, either.”
She let her lashes drop and watched him through narrowed eyes. “Stand out where?”
He took a folded piece of card stock from his billfold. She opened it, read the name and the address, and barely kept her mouth from flapping open. “But this is … this is tomorrow.”
“The timing’s awful. I apologize.” Leaning close, he took a deep breath of the air above her raised hand. “There. Smell it again, now.”
Curious rather than obedient, she sniffed her wrist. “A little less like the shipyards,” she admitted. “More like … like burnt wood, and lemons.”
“Very good,” he said, looking genuinely surprised.
Pleased with herself, though she suspected she ought to feel insulted, she smelled the perfume again. “It’s nice,” she said. “Odd. But nice.”
“It gets odder,” he said, “and nicer.” He handed the bottle back to her. She held it in the cup of her hands. It was heavy, with all the weight of quality and cash.
“I got work,” she told him. “And I got nothing to wear. Not to a party like this. We get some pretty swell punters in the Bee, but even their tips ain’t gonna put me in an evening gown by tomorrow night.”
“However,” he said, “the generosity of a grateful friend just might.”
“I ain’t wild about charity, Mr. DePaul.”
“And I’m not wild about society musicales.” He stood, and offered his arm. “But I’m sure we can make the best of both.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
The Bee put on a show every night of the week but one, and that one did not coincide with I Fa’s party. It didn’t help the matter that Cyril asked Cordelia to accompany him on such short notice. In the end, she couldn’t get away much before one. Cyril was supposed to pick her up in a taxi at the front of the theatre. The cabbie let the meter run while they sat, for a quarter of an hour.
“Sorry,” she said, when she finally slid in beside him. “I was having some words with the boss.”
“Only cordial ones, I hope,” said Cyril, thinking of the gruff voice he’d heard on the other end of the telephone.
Cordelia snorted. He could smell the Alain de Nils perfume hanging around her like smoke, mixed with the musk of her sweat. Of course, she hadn’t had time to bathe after the show. Well, no one would notice; by the time they got to the party, the guests would be so steeped in hock they wouldn’t notice a dead wharf rat stuffed down their shirt.
“Busy night?” he asked. “Will you be up to much mingling?”
“Please.” She pulled a foot into her lap. “In these shoes? Point me to the sofa and put a drink in my hand.”
The pumps were turquoise suede, beaded in jet, and they had a fearsome heel. Cyril didn’t remember buying them—had no idea where one might go about buying them—and so concluded they must be something Cordelia had already owned.
“Careful,” he said, lifting her foot delicately from her knee, “or you’ll put a run in your stocking.”
“Sweetness,” she said, hiking her black satin dress up to her thigh. “I ain’t wearing stockings.”
Nor was she wearing a garter belt, or a slip. Just her own freckles. “Suppose it saves you time.”
“Boy,” she said, snorting. “Does it ever.”
He wondered what she thought he knew, or if she thought he’d just used Aristide as a pimp, a procurer. Actually, he had no idea what Aristide had told her, what he’d said, what he’d traded for her services. Or what she thought those services included.
The car let them off at the curb outside the Fischer Building, an edifice of white marble above the Harbor Terrace boardwalk. Floodlights shone across the dazzling façade.
“Sort of makes you wanna squint,” said Cordelia, screwing up her face.
There was a private lift to the penthouse, emblazoned with I Fa’s family crest. Cyril gave his card to the attendant, who nodded crisply and ratcheted the lever into place. The cage of the lift began to rise.
When they arrived, Cordelia swept the train of her gown across the copper lintel, careful not to catch her heel in the gap. The movement was surprisingly elegant, at odds with her brassy talk and demeanor. But she was a dancer; he shouldn’t be surprised.
Once he’d tipped the lift attendant, he caught up with Cordelia and folded her hand over his arm. Her new, white glove was startling against his navy sleeve. He laid his own gloved hand over it.
“You look quite at home,” he murmured. “Are you sure you’re not secretly a lady of quality?”
“Quality? Nah.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Just a keen observer.”
Tulip lamps cast gold reflections on the highly waxed parquet, flanking a runner from the lift to a set of double doors, open onto I Fa’s parlor. Laughter sparkled over the murmur of conversation, punctuated by the snap of glasses biting each other in a toast. A footman bowed them across the threshold.
I Fa’s parlor was all white and gold and tones of peach, long and wide with a low ceiling. It ended in a row of windows looking over the bay. Against the brilliance of the room, the view of the nighttime harbor was breathtaking, spangled with ship’s lights and blinking buoys.
Most of the guests were gathered at the windows. I Fa had placed the tables of food there, where the platters of fruit and caviar were lit to best advantage against the dark vista. A caterer in a bright silk suit poured champagne over a tower of glasses. Cyril scanned the crowd and saw Deputy Commissioner Müller deep in conversation with an intent group of harriers.
The center of the parlor was sunk a few feet deeper than the rest of the room. I Fa held court there, seated on a pouf at the center of a circular couch upholstered in velvet. A long-boned man had his dark head in her lap, his face turned into her belly. Müller’s wife, Maxine, sat beside the baroness, gesticulating with a champagne coupe. Each sweep of her hand threatened to splash her companions. Abandoned lovers and spouses lay across the cushions, no doubt discussing social intrigues as vicious and vital as those of their politically m
inded companions circulating by the windows.
“Well,” Cyril said to Cordelia, gesturing toward the jeweled tableau of gossips. “There’s the sofa. Shall I get you a drink?”
When she laughed, she sparkled. “You’re a treasure.”
He handed her down the steps. “I won’t be long,” he said. “I promise.”
She settled onto a cushion and stripped off her gloves. A girl in livery offered her a tray of chocolates. Lifting the candy to her lips, she said, “Pigeon pie, you can take as long as you need.”
* * *
At the bar, Cyril dispensed with his own white kidskins, tucking them into his tail pocket and then lifting a coupe of champagne from the tower. The stem was faintly sticky, owing to the extravagant manner in which the wine had been poured. Transferring it to his other hand, he flexed his fingers, disconcerted.
Müller’s group of hangers-on had thinned, leaving him pinned down by one tenacious gentleman. The deputy commissioner looked drawn and gray, his expression sour. Every few seconds, he would glance over his companion’s shoulder, staring anxiously toward his wife. Cyril knew that look. Can we leave yet?
He lingered by the window, watching Müller’s reflection. Finally, the stubborn petitioner wandered off. Müller winced at his handshake and made for Maxine with the singular focus of a stalking cat. Cyril peeled off from the bank of windows and pursued.
He caught Müller’s arm before the other man made it halfway across the room. “Deputy Commissioner,” he said, offering his hand.
The intense concentration on Müller’s face collapsed into annoyance. Cyril braced himself for a rude reception, but he was pleasantly surprised. Müller reassembled himself and shook hands, a consummate professional.
“DePaul.” Müller looked over the rims of his narrow eyeglasses. He had deep, yellow-brown eyes, like a bird of prey, and a nose to match. Crow’s-feet cracked the skin at his temples. Well into middle age, he was at least ten years older than Commissioner Taormino, which must have put an extra sting in the tail of his thwarted career. “Are you here for work or pleasure tonight?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” Cyril tempered the insult with a crooked smile.
“I’d hope we could exchange a few civil words, outside all that,” said Müller, “if it came to it. Did you enjoy Miss Sin’s performance?”
“I’m afraid we missed it. My companion had a prior engagement, and it made us late.” He nodded in Cordelia’s direction. She leaned in close to Maxine, and as Cyril watched, both women burst into laughter.
“Fetching,” said Müller. “That’s … quite a head of hair. She looks familiar.”
“I can’t think why,” said Cyril. “Surely the deputy commissioner of the ACPD doesn’t frequent Temple Street nightclubs.”
Müller’s eyes drew into a squint, then widened. “Lady’s name, she’s the stripper at the Bee.”
“Yes. Lovely woman. Actually, I’m meant to be fetching her a drink.”
“Well, then I won’t keep you,” said Müller, stepping aside. Relief was plain on his face.
Cyril took his card case from his pocket and flipped it open, sliding one card free with his thumb. “Ring me up sometime. This is no place to talk business, but I’ve got a few things I’d like to chat about.”
“I’ve got your office line,” said Müller.
“Maybe I want to exchange a few civil words,” said Cyril. “Outside all that.”
“This isn’t about what happened last week on the wharves, is it?” An edge of apprehension came into Müller’s voice. “Chief Sturinopoli’s barely out of the academy. Taormino seemed confident enough about her promotion, but…” His pause meant several things. He doubted Taormino’s faith, or perhaps her ethics. Maybe he even suspected Sturinopoli and Taormino of purposefully skewering their own raid. Cyril had caught the tail end of it in the papers, after his return from Nuesklend. Acting on an anonymous tip, the police went looking for smugglers docking at the southern wharves in the early hours. They’d ended up scaring the piss out of the crew of a fishing vessel. One woman fell overboard and drowned.
“Oh no,” said Cyril. “It’s nothing to do with that, believe me. In fact, it might be welcome news. Call when you get a chance.”
Müller scanned Cyril’s card and put it away. “I very well may.” They shook hands again. “But for now, I think I’ll collect Maxine and go home to bed.”
“Goodnight, then. Safe travels.”
From behind the long spread of pâté and ice sculptures, Cyril watched Müller approach his wife. She looked up at him, then around at the party. Her shoulders slumped, but she rose and took his arm. Together, they disappeared out the door.
* * *
When Cyril returned to the sofa where he’d left Cordelia, bearing two glasses of champagne, he was concentrating hard to keep from spilling. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” he said, watching his feet on the steps. “I was waylaid—”
“Well, this is a surprise. Hello, Mr. DePaul.”
Aristide’s hauteur froze Cyril in place. He looked up from the precarious coupes and met umber eyes, ringed in kohl. Aristide was sitting straight now, but that long-boned man on I Fa’s lap … Cyril should have recognized him earlier, even with his sumptuous hair drawn into a tightly plaited coronet, and his relatively sober evening dress.
His paint was limited to lipstick the color of dewy mulberries, and the thin, dark stripe around his eyes. The satin facings of his lapels shone under the low-hanging chandelier.
“Mr. Makricosta.” Cyril tried to keep his greeting bright, surprised, but even he could hear how sharp it landed. A decorative letter opener used as a knife. “I didn’t realize you were going to be here.”
“Likewise.” Aristide turned to Baroness Fa. “D-D-Dumpling, I didn’t know you and Mr. DePaul were acquainted.”
The baroness looked Cyril up and down, and suddenly he wondered just how Van der Joost had wrangled this invitation.
Cordelia saved him. “He’s here with me.”
“Ah, that explains it.” I Fa patted Cordelia’s knee. “An orchid needs an elegant stem to lift it toward the sun. And you are a shrewd little orchid, darling. You picked a very nice one.”
Well, Cordelia had obviously charmed her way into their hostess’s good graces far faster than Cyril had managed to squirm into Müller’s. Which meant he could leave her here while he dealt with Aristide.
“Madam, Ms. Lehane,” said Cyril, nodding to them each in turn. “May I borrow Mr. Makricosta for a moment?”
“Oh, but won’t you sit with us instead?” I Fa gestured to an empty space on the sofa. “You would make a lovely addition to the general tableau.”
“I’m afraid we would bore you,” said Cyril. “It’s just business.”
“Darling,” said Aristide to their hostess, “I p-p-promise I’ll be simply celeritous. You’ll hardly even notice I’m g-g-gone.”
She pursed her lips. “Incorrigible little liar. Do not lay the blame at my slippers when you return and all the sweets are eaten.”
Bestowing an indulgent smile on her disapproval, he rose and straightened his jacket. Cyril transferred both glasses to one hand and put the other in the center of Aristide’s back, maneuvering him out of the crowd.
* * *
In the quiet of the foyer, Cyril handed the two coupes of champagne to Aristide and took his money clip from his pocket. He slipped several bills from the center of the fold and handed them to the footman.
“Find somewhere else to be,” he suggested.
“Elegant,” said Aristide, as the footman disappeared into the party. “Are we supposed to k-k-keep out the gate-crashers, too?”
Cyril took back one of the glasses and drained it, then scowled at Aristide over the rim. “What were you and Cordelia talking about?”
“We work together, Cyril. I was surprised to run into her, especially since she wasn’t invited.” He flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Anyway, we were just having
a ch-ch-chat.”
“Excuse my skepticism.”
Aristide tched. “Mr. DePaul, so suspicious. It’s a p-p-party. At least try to enjoy it.” He crossed his arms, hanging his wineglass above his elbow with elegant fingers. “How did you manage to get in, anyhow? As I said, I happen to know Cordelia was not invited; whether the b-b-baroness remembers it is another story entirely.”
“How much does she know, Aristide?”
“The baroness?”
“Don’t be obtuse. What have you told Cordelia?”
“That you need some female company.” He made it sound like a disease.
“Queen’s sake, Ari, I’m not a john.”
“P-P-Preferable to an Ospie.”
Cyril’s fingers tightened on the stem of the coupe. “Aristide.”
“Are you going to t-t-take her home?”
“I don’t want to talk about this with you.”
“It would serve me right, if you did.”
“I’m not going to knock her to put a pin in your ass, Ari. That’s your style, not mine.”
Aristide rolled his eyes, his disdain caricaturesque. “I haven’t told her anything,” he said, “if that will p-p-put your hackles down. You needed a girl; I found you one. Obviously you like her well enough; she’d never b-b-buy that p-p-perfume for herself. Alain de Nils, isn’t it? Very nice.”
“Well my mistress couldn’t exactly wear attar of roses to a party like this, could she?” Cyril put his free hand to his face, fingers pressing into his forehead. “You could have told me it was going to be her, Aristide.”
“You t-t-trusted my judgment. I’m t-t-trying to help you.”
“By spying on me?” He checked himself, bringing his volume down. “Do you think you can get my secrets out of her? Why would you suppose she knows them? I’ve always done an excellent job of hiding what needs to be hidden. It’s my rotten job.”
The second champagne coupe smashed against the dark parquet. Aristide shoved Cyril against the wall, using the height and strength he usually downplayed in favor of effete elegance. “Not from me.”
“Yes,” said Cyril, hating how hungry he sounded. “Even from you.” It was a patent lie, and they both knew it. But it was a lie that went both ways.
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