The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  “Not necessary, Mr. Witte. I’ve seen myself home on later and colder nights than this.”

  “I insist, Miss Lovell.”

  He hailed a cab, and they rode together in silence to her house. Irene watched the patches of lamplight pass over the lumpy upholstery of the cab, over the fine wool of Harry’s trousers, over his face. There were secrets in that face. Many secrets.

  Not the least of which, as far as Irene was concerned, was Pearl.

  When they pulled up in front of Irene’s house, Harry got out and held the door for Irene. When she had freed herself from the cab, she extended her hand, and Harry took it for a heartbeat.

  “Be safe, Miss Lovell. It was a pleasure meeting you, but I doubt we’ll see each other again.”

  “My thanks again, Henry. If I find out anything about Papa—”

  He was already shaking his head. “Just let it go, Miss Lovell. Better for everyone.”

  Then he got back in the cab, and the car pulled away, leaving Irene standing at the end of the frosted drive. She took mincing steps across the ice, let herself in at the kitchen door, and sat for a moment in the darkness at the cold hearth. The space felt different—larger, emptier—and the copper pots hanging above the stove were dull-eyed mourners. Irene sat there for a long time, waiting for something besides the blunted ache in her chest, thinking of Sally.

  And eventually she grew tired, and her feet had thawed, and she went upstairs. The suitcase still sat on the bed, its zippered teeth glinting in the ambient light, and a hat box sat on the chair.

  Paris.

  Irene shoved the suitcase from the bed, spilling clothes across the floor. She kicked off her shoes, dumped her coat on the chair, crawled into bed.

  Sleep waited like a cliff at the edge of the sea. She came close once or twice, daring herself to make the leap, and then at last she was sailing, and flying, and falling.

  On the way down, she thought about a red-headed man, and a wooden box, and the emptied suitcase.

  Paris.

  Something new—something different—had crawled inside Cian’s mouth during the night. This wasn’t the familiar, trampled-and-rotten-cat taste of a too many passes of Danny Bancroft’s moonshine. It wasn’t even the acidic after-burn of fresh vomit. It was cold and dry as an iron file and made his tongue taste like snakeskin.

  Later, when his eyes were open and he’d had a cup of coffee, he’d know it was fear.

  But for the moment, Cian hadn’t had a cup of coffee—or, for that matter, a drop of booze. What he had was that taste in his mouth, and a pain in the back of his neck, and two feet like blocks of ice. The smell of wood-smoke drifted past him, becoming clearer as he woke, and then voices percolating through the miasma of sleep. Not angry voices. Not shouting, or the sounds of chase. Normal, everyday voices. Voices of cabbage and salted pork and linens needing washing. Kerry Patch voices.

  The pain in his neck had not faded. So, all things considered, Cian opened his eyes.

  The light of day had not improved the squat length of alley where he’d spent the night. Cian peered out from under the crude lean-to he’d assembled from broken crates and a ratty length of blanket that had been a lucky find. Snow draped the top of the lean-to, and between the snow and the boards and the scrap of woolen blanket, Cian was halfway warm. Only halfway, though.

  A bent nail turned out to be the source of the pain in his neck. Cian turned himself about and found a spot where the nail couldn’t reach him. From the strip of the alley he could see through the crack in the boards, it was early morning. The sole of an overturned boot was white with snow, but everywhere else the snow had already turned into the muddy slush that marked a Kerry Patch winter. Smoke continued to tickle Cian’s nose, and mixed with it now was the scent of fried ham. The smell set a hook in Cian’s stomach and pulled him out of the lean-to inch by inch, until he was stomping the feeling back into his feet, grateful for boots that had kept him dry if not warm. And then he set off into the Patch, looking for the piece of ham that had lured him out.

  He found the ham—or a close relation—at a beaten-down diner two blocks south. Cian sat near the window, with his breath frosting the glass and his hands shaking until the coffee arrived. Ham and eggs came next. The place had the smell of accumulated cooking grease, of unwashed bodies, of burned beans. It was a place where no one would look twice at Cian.

  He was grateful for that much. Grateful that no one looked twice at him, grateful that he had five dollars in assorted coins, grateful that he had a thick piece of ham and a pair of sunny-side-up eggs staring back at him. Grateful that he hadn’t gotten shot to pieces last night, grateful that he hadn’t frozen to death, grateful that—so far—there was no sign of Seamus’s men still looking for him.

  Hell. He was even grateful for Harry Witte saving his life.

  But gratitude was one thing. What Cian couldn’t figure out, as he ate and drank and felt his internal bead of mercury rising, was why he still hadn’t gotten on a train. Or, maybe better, a boat.

  Why he was still in St. Louis.

  Run. That was the part of his brain that counted the loose coins in his pocket, that kept an eye out the frosted glass, that made sure the pair of old men in the corner, their beards sweeping gravy-laden plates, didn’t look at Cian too long or too hard. Run far and run fast.

  Because when you stick around, things go to shit. As they had in France.

  Another part of him—the part that was continually getting him into trouble—said stay. Stay and find a way to deal with the rest of Seamus’s men. It meant finding the bastard who had shot Seamus and turning him over to the gang, but that would be enough to buy Cian his life. It meant he could stay in St. Louis.

  See Irene again.

  And where in the hell had that thought come from?

  Cian finished up his meal, paid, and left. The sun was out today, the sky blue, frost-melt dripping from the dog-eared eaves. People were out too, taking advantage of the relative warmth, shopping or looking for work or doing all the things people did from day to day. Ahead, a mud-spackled dog chased a cat through a fenced lot, and a red-faced woman shouted and waved a broom, and a pair of boys sat huddled together in a doorway, whittling and whistling when they ought to have been at home or at school.

  Run or stay.

  Before long, Cian stood at Union Station. The massive structure of gray limestone with its red roof looked like an ant nest. People swarmed the doors, and trains chugged slowly into the terminal, and the air was a thicker, grittier gray than the rest of the city. Cian plunged through the crowds. Well-dressed men and women with expensive luggage waited on one side of the sidewalk, flagging down cabs and bell-boys, and sprinkled with folk who looked more like Cian: rumpled, dirty, and hungry. The crowds eased somewhat as he entered the station itself, passing through the vaulted Grand Hall with its stained-glass windows and landing himself in front of a desk with a gray-haired woman and a pile of paperwork.

  “I’d like a ticket,” Cian said. “The cheapest you have.”

  The woman played with her cheaters, looked at him once, and consulted a map. Then another look at Cian. And then at the map again.

  Then, still toying with her cheaters, at Cian.

  “I believe that’s to Kirkwood,” she said. “Let me check.”

  She stood up, smoothed her blouse, and stepped behind a glass-and-wood partition. Cian watched her through the glass. Her neck was stiff, her shoulders hunched, as though she were trying to look natural and couldn’t quite manage. Cian risked a look to his left. At the next counter, a stout man held a ticketing book in one hand while he watched Cian. When he noticed Cian’s gaze, he flushed and looked down at the book.

  Cian’s skin prickled, and he caught himself glancing up and down the terminal. A red-headed lady was speaking to a messenger boy, and the boy looked once at Cian. Something wasn’t right. Cian turned his attention back to the woman who had been helping him. On the far side of the partition, the woman was speaking to a stout,
balding man in a cheap suit, who was studying Cian openly.

  Cian dropped his head, turned around, and started back towards the Great Hall.

  He needed to get lost in a crowd.

  “Sir,” the woman called behind him. “Your ticket, sir.”

  Cian didn’t look back.

  Run or stay, he thought as he slipped back out onto the street, hoping the crowd would put a screen between him and the station. Running was the smart choice. The right choice.

  But someone knew he was trying to run. It was only a feeling, but Cian trusted his gut. Someone had paid off the staff at the terminal.

  Someone was trying to stop him from leaving.

  And that made Cian want to run all the more.

  As Cian made his way to the docks, he kept his eye open for anyone who might be following him. This deep in the city, the streets were packed with men and women, rich and poor, working and idle, mick and American and black. Cars and trucks and even a few horse-drawn wagons turned the roads stagnant, and twice Cian slid through the stalled traffic, hoping to lose any pursuers in the maze of automobiles.

  He never saw anyone. Cian wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  The muddy stain of the Mississippi grew, spreading until the far side was a glimpse of green and brown in the distance. The waters were choppy today, and chunks of ice bobbed and flopped as they were torn free by the warmer weather. River smells filled the air, dead fish and tar, and the wind off the water sliced through Cian’s coat. He didn’t like rivers. They were untrustworthy things.

  But untrustworthy or not, the river was the fastest way out of town now that he knew the station was being watched. There was something wrong about it. It was too big a job. It was too much money. Seamus’s gang might want Cian dead, but they didn’t have that kind of influence.

  So who did?

  He should have left town last night. He should have left the girl, hit the road, and never looked back.

  But, as history proved time and again, Cian Shea was as stupid as they came.

  If men from Seamus’s gang—or whoever it was—had locked down Union Station, then it was a safe bet that the main wharf would be watched as well. Cian slowed as he drew closer to the wharf, walking at the rear of a horse-drawn wagon. He studied the port. At first, the wharf seemed no different from any other day. Plenty of men and boys hard at work, loading and unloading the boats, engaged in loud conversations, shouting for traffic to clear.

  But for a winter day—even a relatively warm one, like today—there were at least half a dozen extra boys sitting on pilings and lounging on stacks of crates. Boys that seemed to be in no particular hurry to find a bit of work.

  Boys who were watching the wharf.

  Right then, Cian stepped into a pile of horse droppings and cursed. He paused long enough to wipe his boot clean on the curb, and when he looked up, the wagon had moved on without him. One of the boys—a rat-faced, wiry thing with a mop of blond hair—was staring at Cian.

  The boy whistled.

  Cian sprinted back up the wharf, away from the docks and the river. A patch of icy straw gave out from under his boot, but Cian kept his footing, launched himself up the steps and away from the river. Shouts followed him as he shoved his way through the crowds, and then he hit an empty side street, turned down it, and sped into the network of alleys that curled behind the main streets of St. Louis.

  When he could no longer hear the shouts, when the only sound was the clap of his boots on the brick pavement, Cian slowed to a walk. His heart pounded, sweat stung his face, and his breath came in gasps. He took in his surroundings. A quiet, narrow street of quiet, narrow houses. An old German woman in a bonnet and a patchwork coat watched him with mouse-eyes as she swept her stoop. The smell of the river had faded. Here, Cian smelled the leftover, yeasty odor of fermentation. Perhaps the smell lingered from the days before the Volstead Act. Perhaps some of St. Louis’s finest were still making their own beer. The smell turned Cian’s stomach, though, and he dropped to sit on a stoop.

  The old German woman kept sweeping and watching him. Her face was a wrinkled apple. A sour, wrinkled apple.

  Old German women, though, were the least of Cian’s problems. With trains and boats both closed to him, Cian would have to leave town on foot. Or, if he were lucky, perhaps hitching a ride, although that seemed unlikely.

  Run, the smart part of Cian’s brain was still saying.

  But now another part of him had woken up. The part that had seen the lieutenant, that night in France, and pulled the Colt, and squeezed the trigger, and never thought twice about it. The part that had been glad—glad—to see the bastard’s brains and bone spattered across the wall.

  Cian’s life wasn’t worth a wooden penny. He was a murderer, a deserter, and a drunk. Most jobs wouldn’t take him, and the ones that did, he managed to screw up. But it had been his life. And someone had taken it from him.

  Then he knew who it was.

  The thin man, the one who had shot Seamus and left Cian to take the fall.

  That’s when everything had gone wrong.

  Cian got to his feet and started walking. His feet hurt. His head hurt. The ham from that morning had taken a bad turn in his stomach.

  He had less than five dollars in his pocket, but he found someplace warm, a little Hun soda shop in Dutchtown, and he bought himself a bottle of Bevo, an egg salad sandwich, and then a second sandwich to eat on the road. His head had settled by the time he’d finished eating. He thought Mrs. Doyle might even be proud of him, if he hadn’t left Bobby Flynn dead in her back yard. Two days now and he’d woken up sober. Even St. Patrick might find that hard to believe.

  It took Cian longer than he thought to find Eileen’s apartment. One reason was that he didn’t know her last name, and Eileen was a common enough name in the Patch. The other reason was that, even in the middle of the day, the Patch was still the Patch, and Cian had to keep to back streets and places where Seamus’s men didn’t have a handhold.

  By mid-afternoon, though, Cian had wandered into the courtyard of a rickety log structure. It was a cold, dark, quiet spot of the Patch, walled away from sunlight and fresh air, and doors studded both stories of the courtyard. He guessed that women like Eileen tended to live in place like this: little, one-room hovels with nothing more than a bed. It was better than what some folk in the Patch had. Cian stood on the ground floor outside a rough door. He hammered on the door and heard movement inside, and a moment later, the door popped open a crack.

  A red-rimmed eye looked out at him, widened in surprise, and the door started to shut.

  Cian wedged his foot into the crack.

  “Morning, Eileen. Afternoon, really.”

  “Get lost,” she said. “You’re bad news, Cian Shea. You should leave town.”

  “See, that’s really funny, Eileen. I thought the same thing.” Cian gave the door a shove. Eileen fell back, landing on a narrow cot. The room was as spare as Cian had imagined it: the cot, a lone chair with clothes hanging off the back, and a three-legged table with a pitcher and basin. Cold winter air mixed with the smell of Eileen’s body. Cian closed the door and stood with his back to it.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Eileen grimaced and pulled her flimsy dressing gown closer. She watched him for a minute. She was still throwing off those tiny shivers that Cian remembered from the first time he met her.

  “You’re sick?” he asked.

  No answer.

  “You might as well get under those blankets. I’m not here for business. At least, not for your business.”

  Without a word, Eileen crawled back under the bedding. She still shivered. She still said nothing.

  “I tried leaving town. Someone’s got the station watched, so I can’t get a train, and the docks are crawling with Seamus’s men. Or whoever is running things now that Seamus is dead.”

  “Byrne.”

  “What?”

  “Byrne is running things now. And he’s put a hundr
ed dollars out for your head.”

  The name didn’t mean anything to Cian. “What about another fellow? A man who visited Seamus, but not by the front door? Someone Seamus trusted enough that he’d meet with him in secret?”

  “Seamus didn’t trust anybody.”

  “He wanted to meet this man without anyone else knowing. Who could it be?”

  “What do I know? I’m just a whore. The last person Seamus met with was you, and you shot him dead.”

  “No. There was another man back there.”

  Eileen watched him for a moment. She had eyes as green as a summer field, and they were bright now. She nodded. “You didn’t look like the type anyway.”

  “So who could this other fellow be?”

  “I have no idea. But there’s been trouble for weeks now. Fights along the river, new folk moving in from the north and the east. Pushing Hogan’s boys, the Cuckoo Gang, Egan’s Rats—all of them. Whoever they are, they’d been hitting Seamus hard. Then Seamus started going queer on us. Screaming in the night, at first, and then twitching like he’d looked up the Devil’s skirt. You saw him. He wasn’t right in the head.”

  “He looked frightened.”

  “He was mad. Totally out of his mind. Everyone’s breathing a sigh of relief that he’s dead.”

  “Everyone except me.”

  Eileen offered a narrow smile. “Everyone except you.”

  “So who’s this new gang?”

  “I don’t know that they’ve got themselves a proper name yet. But everyone talks about the Dane.”

  “Where?”

  “South Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany? What are they? A bunch of ladies in fur stoles?”

  “I told you, Tiffany. South side. That’s all I know.”

  “Thanks.” Cian paused. “Who hit you?”

  Eileen traced a shadow of a bruise on the side of her face. “Bobby. Said I was working with you. Said nobody would get a whore’s coat for her otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nobody paid him any mind, and Bobby left me alone after he knocked me around a bit.” She shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”