“You have about seven aliases already,” she said. “What could you possibly need an eighth for?”
In fact, he had twelve, but what Zelda didn’t know, she couldn’t divulge. “It’s not actually for me.”
“Oh?”
He pursed his lips. “Zelly. Don’t be nosy. It’s so very c-c-common.”
The look she gave him would’ve stripped paint off a ship’s hull. “Who am I filling it out for?”
“The name doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just call him … oh, Darling. Paul Darling.” He wanted to correct himself; that was a ridiculous pseudonym, and a whisker too close to the name he wanted to elide.
She slotted the paper into her typewriter and typed it out. Then, “Height?”
“Five feet, seven inches.”
“Weight?”
Warm, fidgeting. Corded muscles softening with desk work. Zelda’s gaze flicked up at his pause. “Eleven stone.”
“Hair?”
“Blond.”
She stopped writing, and stared at him. “Eyes?”
She’d figured it out. Of course she had. “Blue.”
She bit her lip. It was already raw with anxious abuse, and split beneath her teeth. Then, incongruously, she giggled. “A roto print of Solomon Flyte. Oh, Ari. It’s good to know you’re a fool in love, just like the rest of us.”
“Laugh again,” he said, leaning close, “and I will p-p-positively kill you.”
Her cruel smile faltered, and he thought she might believe him. Excellent; she should.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time Ari found her in her dressing room, Cordelia was holding herself together with a twist of thread and a prayer. Builders had got the fire damage fixed in a few days, but there’d been more vandalism in the last week, and the cast was getting hassled every night on the street. No one wanted to leave the theatre at the end of the evening, and some of them were solving the problem by not coming in at all. The show was down to bare bones, with a dwindling chorus line and one too many repeats and old numbers.
Malcolm spent most of his time locked in his office, drinking the bar’s ballast and going over his unhappy accounts. She’d just left him, half-drunk and all raging, to glue on her pasties and get ready for another grueling night. Ari didn’t knock, and caught her topless with a bottle of gum in her hand.
“Need something?” she asked.
“You’re crooked on the left,” he said, tipping his chin.
She swore and peeled the swatch of glitter from her breast. “Ari, I ain’t got time for your sass. Curtain’s up in fifteen minutes.”
“And you’re not on for thirty. I’m the one who should be worried, and do I look it?”
“This is what I mean.” She replaced the pastie, straight this time. “What’s going on?”
“Will you pick something up for me?”
“Where?”
“P-P-Pyck Street. Do you know the Quayside Fish House?”
“Rough,” she said.
“You’re not afraid.”
“No,” she said. “I ain’t.” She hadn’t been afraid of anything he offered her, not since Tory died. She was mad at the Ospies, at the blackboots who’d beat him, and even at Cyril, who’d only offered her a way in to keep her safe. So mad, she’d come to Ari and offered to go him one better than running tar. The letter to the women in the attic, that had been small change. Now it was coded messages, money, guns with the serial numbers filed away.
“There will be a man waiting for you at the bar. Red skullcap and waxed mustaches. He has your description.”
“Got a little ahead of yourself. What if I’d said no?”
He cocked an eyebrow, exaggerated with dark paint.
“All right,” she said. “You’re right. But what, you busy with something else tonight? Please say it’s more important than shuckin’ your oysters with some soft-bellied blush boy. You still seein’ copper top?”
“Off and on,” said Aristide. “But no. I have an appointment with a client. Only time we were both free. Unfortunately, also the only time Zelda’s man could make a drop.”
“Peronides? So it’s hooky I’m moving.”
He paused to consider the question. With his garish makeup, and a stocking cap over his pin curls, he looked like a mannequin wearing a carnival mask. “I suppose it’s stolen, yes.”
“Leave it with Narita? The usual spot?”
“If you please. And ask her to wait with it. I’ll be by, late, to pick it up.” He turned to go, then stopped at the doorway and looked back. “Cordelia…”
“Yeah? What?”
“Thank you.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “If you want.”
He half-smiled and left her alone. As he walked down the hall, she heard him start to sing a scale: up eight, down eight, and then one-three-five-eight-five-three-one. His smoky baritone echoed through the thin backstage walls. Usually, he’d have had two or three other singers jumping in to sing harmony for warm ups. But he didn’t rouse even one.
Cordelia faced the mirror and started in with her lipstick. Cyril was right: She’d have made a clever fox if she’d gone over. But she wasn’t going to. Tory was dead, Malcolm was falling apart, and the blackboots had chucked a bomb into her theatre. Amberlough wasn’t safe for stagefolk at night. The Ospies were picking apart everything she loved and knew and lived for, and she aimed to pick back.
* * *
The man with the waxed mustache bought her a glass of dark beer. They put on a good show of flirting. Leaning close, he put his arm around her shoulder and spoke into her ear.
“Hang your purse up.”
She giggled and pushed him away. There were thief-proofed clips on the underside of the bar. Snagging the strap of her handbag in the clip nearest his knees, she let it swing over to him. When the bartender had his back turned, and the crowd was mostly facing away, he pulled a package from inside his jacket. He moved so smooth, so fast, she missed the moment it went into her purse.
He bought her another drink. They lingered. Then, he checked his watch and swore. “Wife’s gonna hide me.”
Cordelia pretended offense, and wouldn’t speak to him as he left. She scowled over the last of her beer. The bartender gave her a sympathetic look. She left. The whole play took half an hour, at most, and then Cordelia was out the door with her handbag a damn sight heavier than it had been.
She didn’t look inside. No point—it was wrapped up, and she didn’t want to know what it was, anyhow. Just wanted to get it safe to Narita.
Pyck Street ran north to join up with South Seagate at the end of the trolley line. Cordelia struck out along the fringes of Eel Town, walking quick past cheap hotels, dodgy kebab joints, and brothels that catered to sailors who couldn’t be assed to make the long trip north to the first precinct’s regulated red light district. Most of the houses down here weren’t licensed, and the ones that were did a lot of off-the-books business: kidnapped kids and foreigners. Crooked pimps had always slipped through Taormino’s well-greased fingers.
“Hey you, copper top!” A drunk Niori seaman waved at Cordelia from a piss-stained doorway. “How much?”
She ignored the catcall and pressed on, wishing for a scrounging cabbie stupid enough to brave the dregs of the fourth precinct. Maybe she ought to have taken the shorter route, straight through Eel Town on Cane Street. Seedier, but maybe faster, and she might already be home.
Caught up in worrying, she didn’t see the hound until she’d already run into him.
“Watch it, dolly,” he said. “All that hurry won’t do no good if you fall and break your skull.” His truncheon whistled past her head, but long practice kept her from flinching. The hounds liked to snap at kids from the Mew, and kids from the Mew learned quick not to snap back. But they also learned hounds followed the smell of fear. Cordelia didn’t give him anything to scent.
“I’ll be careful,” she told him. “Thanks.”
When she moved to walk
past, his truncheon struck her hard across the breasts. Hissing through her teeth, she stopped and waited.
“Hold on a minute. Which house are you from?”
“I ain’t from a house,” she said.
“So you’re freelance? Let’s see your license.”
“I don’t hire out,” she said. “I’m just passing through on my way home.”
“From where? You work one of them big ships on the docks? I doubt it. License.” He grabbed at her handbag.
She snatched it back. “I told you, I ain’t got one.”
“So you’re a hack.” He said it so calmly, she didn’t expect the blow. It slugged like iron straight into her belly. Her knees cracked on the pavement. As she fought to yank some air back into her lungs, the hound scooped up her handbag.
“How much you want?” she asked. No use trying to convince him she wasn’t for hire, not now. “I just got off work and I got a stack stuffed in my garter. Take it all.” Just don’t open the bag.
“More’n my oysters is worth, pigeon pie. New commissioner’s coming down hard on us that likes a little side dish with our roast.”
Hidden by her hair, Cordelia cased the street. There weren’t any other hounds she could see, and most of the whores and their hangers-on had scuttled when they clocked this one.
He popped the clasp and opened her purse. “Though maybe I’ll have a look in here, just to find out what else’s on offer. You was awful grabby about it. Something in here I shouldn’t see?”
She launched herself forward, taking him out at the knees. Last time she’d fought she’d been a scrawny kid going after other featherweights. The resistance she met when she went at the hound surprised her, and she bungled. He tilted to the side and tripped, but he didn’t crash down like she’d planned. His truncheon struck the side of her head and things splashed white, bright as a powder flash. She didn’t let go. Right at a level with his tackle, she opened wide and bit.
He screamed like a baby and lost his balance, fell backward and dragged her along. She was up, and yanking her handbag from him, but he managed another swing of his truncheon and caught her across the wrist. There was a crunch like gravel under tires. Cordelia lost her grip. While the hound recovered, she lashed out with her other hand and scratched him across the eyes, then scooped the bag up and ran dead into Eel Town, looking for a crooked alleyway to hide in. Behind her, the hound blew his whistle.
She made it half a block before his partner came running, with four blackboots at his heels.
* * *
Cyril slept better now, back in his own rooms on Armament. With the windows open he could smell the roses blooming in Loendler Park, and pretend it was just another summer. So he was dead gone when the lights came up, and couldn’t claw himself awake before the foxes grabbed him.
He’d hauled a few targets out of bed in his time—he knew the routine. But the experience was different when he was the one blearily thrashing in a tangle of sheets and grabbing hands.
While he was still blinking, somebody snatched him by the hair and pulled him upright. He went limp and let them haul him, then lashed out with a sharp elbow and caught his assailant in the belly. Still blind, he dove for the foot of his bed and rolled free. The frame bruised his ribs.
Before he could stand, a second attacker landed a kick in the center of his body. He curled around the blow and felt his breath rush out.
“We’d prefer if you came quietly.”
Cyril tried to stand, but the man who’d kicked him stomped him back down. He heard the crack of his skull on the floor like a distant gunshot.
“The boss just wants to ask some questions,” said the first fox. He leaned over Cyril’s bed, weight on his hands, head hanging. His words sounded strained with lack of air. When Cyril spoke, he sounded much the same.
“Well he could’ve asked, couldn’t he?” He wanted to sit but stayed where he was, wary of another blow. “I’d really have preferred the telephone.”
* * *
“Good evening, Mr. DePaul.” Van der Joost had made himself comfortable in Culpepper’s office. The desk was organized in a careful grid, and he’d replaced Culpepper’s seat with a low-backed chair that displayed his ramrod posture to best advantage. Memmediv stood just behind him, looking unfairly poised for whatever ugly hour it was.
“Skip the pleasantries, Veedge.” Cyril had the satisfaction of catching Van der Joost in a double-take, pale eyes flashing under paler brows. “Why am I here? What time is it, anyway?”
“Quarter past three.” Not that anyone would have known from Van der Joost’s appearance—his suit was freshly pressed, his thinning hair combed neatly to one side. Cyril, on the other hand, felt rumpled and sandy-eyed. The foxes hadn’t even let him dress—he had a lightweight mackintosh over his pyjamas, and that was it. His stomach still hurt, too.
Van der Joost held up a hand. “Mr. Memmediv, the packet, if you please.”
Memmediv handed over a bundle wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. The front was torn open beneath the binding, showing a slash of red.
“Recognize these?” Van der Joost set them on the desk, in front of Cyril.
The knot was tight, and Cyril struggled with it. Van der Joost slid a steel letter opener from his stationery box and sliced the string. Cyril thought he’d hidden his flinch, but Van der Joost’s smile told him he hadn’t managed it well enough.
Unfolding the paper, where it wasn’t shredded, Cyril revealed a stack of documents. He leafed through them, reading names—none he recognized, but that didn’t mean anything. These were false papers, versions of the travel permits Cross had mentioned. Each was marked “approved,” in scarlet ink, with the newly modified national seal below. They must have gotten an impression of the stamp. Cyril might not have known the papers were forged if they hadn’t been sitting between him and Van der Joost at quarter past three in the morning.
“Never seen them before,” he said, pushing the pile away.
“So you weren’t involved in leaking them to the black market?”
“You know me,” said Cyril, forcing himself to lean back in his chair, relaxed. “You know why I’m here. Why would I jeopardize that?”
“Perhaps I don’t know you as well as I thought. Reading a man’s file does give one certain insights, but it sometimes fails to communicate the nuances of his character.”
“You told me to toe the line; I toed it. I have done nothing but what you asked.” He crossed his arms, drawing his mackintosh tight around his chest. Pinning Van der Joost with a bleary, small-hours glare, he added, “Frankly, I’m insulted by your suspicion.”
Van der Joost gathered the papers up and tapped them against his desktop, straightening the edges. “But you understand it.”
“No,” said Cyril. “I don’t. What does this have to do with me?”
“Shall I tell you who the police caught carrying these papers tonight?”
Cyril shook his head, bewildered. “A runner? I don’t know.”
“One Cordelia Lehane, with whom I believe you are associated in some capacity. Your … mistress?” Condescension coated the word like slime.
Damnation. It was satisfying, in a small way, to know Aristide had his own plans. But Cyril couldn’t appreciate the irony of their mutual destruction; he was too busy scheming frantically, recalibrating his own strategy.
Cross worked Ins and Outs. Cyril would wager anything she’d ferried the original documents to Aristide. And he’d wager anything twice the foxes had hauled her out of bed tonight, too. If she’d been there in the first place.
Aristide and Cross were partners. And Cordelia was probably giving up everything she knew under torture. Pressure built behind Cyril’s eyes. He ground his teeth against it, unwilling to give Van der Joost the satisfaction of seeing him weep, even in frustration. “I didn’t know.”
Van der Joost sighed, suddenly, and looked at Cyril with concern. “DePaul, I hope you’re telling the truth. We had a very tidy bargain. I’d like
to think you weren’t fool enough to break it.”
“I am telling the truth.” Cyril leaned across the desk and looked Van der Joost full in the face. “I swear I am. If I can prove it, does our agreement stand?” If he could prove Cross’s involvement without linking her to Aristide. If Cordelia didn’t give away everything when they started sliding pins beneath her nails.
“If you can prove it, perhaps. But it will be tricky. And forget about the same thing for your friend.” Van der Joost’s tone lent the word a vulgar connotation.
Well. If Cyril could get out of Gedda, that was enough. Aristide obviously hadn’t been banking on his help, and would have some sort of secondary plot in motion now that his first had come undone. He would get out safely. Cyril just had to save his own skin now.
“Memmediv.” Van der Joost handed the pile of papers back. “Burn these. And tell Customs and Immigration to start drafting a new set of permits.”
Memmediv glanced pointedly at the clock. “Now, sir?”
“Soon begun is sooner done.”
“Yes, sir.” He disappeared through the double doors.
“Are you going to hold me?” asked Cyril. “Because I’d really prefer my bed to a cell.”
“You’re free to return home,” said Van der Joost. “But not, I’m afraid, completely at liberty.”
“House arrest? How am I supposed to—?”
“You will be allowed to move about the city, with an escort. But I wouldn’t try anything adventurous, if I were you. We will ask you back for further questioning, at which point you may present any evidence in your favor, as regards your involvement in this leak.”
Cyril’s grin felt tight. “I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Aristide’s plans changed rapidly after the leaked papers were discovered. Who knew how long Cordelia would hold up under Ospie interrogation? He needed an out that didn’t require international travel. The scheme was already laid for his exit from Amberlough, but he lacked a destination.
He had been scouting places where his money would be worth triple and out of reach of anyone who might like to freeze his assets. Places no one asked expatriates many questions. Now he was hemmed in. In such a bustling international port, the Ospies would be on watch for fugitives. The northern border, though … Now there was an opportunity.
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