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

by Gregory Ashe

  “Get lost before I break your head,” Patrick said.

  One last, frustrated thump came through the door, and then silence.

  “Well,” Patrick said. “You again.” He wore a rumpled undershirt that showed off a nice pair of shoulders—very interesting shoulders, to Irene’s way of thinking—and a pair of trousers. His feet were bare, and he moved from foot to foot on the freezing floor. “Come on,” he said. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

  Patrick led her back to a small room at the rear of the bar. He stirred a pot-bellied stove to life, stoking the flames with coal from a bucket, and the room began to warm. Waving Irene into a chair, Patrick sat on the unmade bed, pulling the blankets around him.

  “I don’t think I caught your name,” Patrick said. “Seems like I should know the women who come pounding at my door begging for help.”

  “Has there been more than one?”

  Patrick smiled. “No. Just the one.”

  “My name is Irene.”

  “Did you kill Cian Shea?”

  Irene laughed and shook her head. “You saw what happened. He saved my life. Those men—” She cut off, feeling a wave of nervous dizziness sweep over her. “I wouldn’t have hurt him anyway.”

  “You looked pretty serious to me.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Are you and I going to have a misunderstanding? I’d hate to be shot before I have my breakfast.”

  Irene laughed in spite of herself, and Patrick’s grin spread. “No,” Irene said. “No misunderstandings. I need your help.”

  “Since I’m not going to be getting any more sleep,” Patrick said, “give me half a minute to get dressed and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  Irene moved back into the chilly main room of the bar with a twinge of regret as she saw Patrick tugging off his shirt. Good as his word, Patrick followed her a few minutes later, dressed in coat and shirt and shoes, his hair wet and combed. He toasted a few slices of bread at a gas stove and asked, “What can I do for you, Miss Irene? Besides save your life from the everyday trouble of Kerry Patch.”

  “Thank you,” Irene said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say that earlier.”

  Patrick handed her a piece of toast, which Irene took and picked at. “You looked a bit rattled,” Patrick said. “I told you the first time that this wasn’t your kind of place.”

  “I’m starting to think you were right.”

  “You’re looking for Cian again.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Patrick piled his toast on a plate and joined her at the bar. “Maybe?”

  “Maybe. Cian brought my father a box. Within the hour, someone had come to the house and stolen that same box. I thought, at first, it had been Cian. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I can help you there. It wasn’t Cian. He’s not the dishonest sort.”

  Irene nodded. “I was afraid of that. Then how do I find the person who stole it?”

  “Why do you need to find it?”

  “It’s a long story. Besides, it belongs to my father, not to some thief.”

  Patrick ate his toast in silence, and Irene continued to tear pieces of crust from hers.

  “Well,” Patrick said after a few more bites, “I can think of a few ways to start. You can ask some of the local fences, see if the box has shown up. You don’t know what was in it?”

  Irene shook her head.

  “Pity. Whoever took it probably tossed the box at the first chance and kept whatever was inside. Still, you can ask. If they have it, it’ll cost you. Especially looking the way you do.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?”

  Patrick’s grin threatened to split his face. “Nothing, doll. Nothing at all. You might as well have a dollar sign on the back of that pretty little coat, though. You look like a million bucks, and a few of the boys might think you should share the wealth.”

  “Aside from the fences, what can I do?”

  “Well, you can ask Cian who hired him to deliver the box. If you know that, you might have an idea of what was in it and who might steal it.” He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. Then he said, “That’s a bit more dangerous, Miss Irene. You might want to let this go.”

  “I can’t let it go. I do have an idea, though, of what was in the box. Something to do with a secret cult. I’m not sure on the details, but it might have been a talisman or a ritual tool.”

  Patrick sighed. “I was afraid of that. When I saw the golems—” He stopped and waved a half-eaten piece of toast.

  “You knew those were golems? You know about golems?”

  “What I know would probably fit in one of your tiny little hands, Miss Irene. But I know enough to keep my head down when golems show up. Whoever is making those things means serious business. I thought they were here for Cian, but if you’re right—well, they might have been here for you.”

  “And how do I find out who made them?”

  “You don’t. The smart bet, the safe bet, is to hop a train out of town and lie low for a few weeks.” Patrick dropped the last piece of toast on his plate, looked at her, and sighed. “You’re not that type, though, are you?”

  Irene shook her head.

  “The pretty ones always get me in trouble. Start with the fences, then. I’ll do a bit of asking. No promises, but if I hear anything, I’ll send word. Where can I find you?”

  “The Louisiana Grand. I’ll be taking a room there.”

  Patrick whistled. “A million bucks, doll. A million bucks. If you ever need a good-looking man on your arm, just say the word.”

  “I will,” Irene said. “As soon as I find him.”

  Patrick feigned a wince, smiled, and devoured the last piece of toast.

  An hour and a half later, Irene was safely outside the Patch, having been escorted by Patrick. He left her with a name and an address, and a quick cab ride took Irene to a row of respectable brick shops on Grand. One of the shops had a velvet-lined tray of watches in the window, above which hung a sign that read, H. S. Lawrence. The name matched the one that Patrick had given her. Irene opened the door. A bell jingled, a burst of warm air met her, and she found herself inside the shop.

  Glass displays made a U, offering an array of watches, for men and women, some with leather straps, others with delicate metal bands, and many set with precious stones. Behind the displays sat a more serviceable workbench covered with tiny pieces, all placed with obvious care. A stout man with a long white beard emerged from a back room. He was dressed in a dark suit, but there was something jolly about his face, an almost Santa Claus-type smile that hovered on the edges of his mouth.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “How may I help you?”

  “A friend sent me,” Irene said. “He told me to ask if you had a 1904 Le Deniau. For my godmother.”

  At the coded request, the man’s face showed a hint of surprise, but he simply nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I am Hugo Lawrence. How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a box that was stolen from my home. Perhaps the box has been sold. Or perhaps its contents.”

  Hugo frowned. “Do you know what the box contained?”

  Irene flushed. “No. Unfortunately, it had been delivered only a short time before.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hugo said. “Without an idea of the contents—”

  “It was a small box,” Irene said. “No more than a foot long. It didn’t have any obvious way to open it. I was thinking that such a box might be sold as such, without opening it.”

  The color drained from Hugo’s ruddy cheeks. “Ma’am, I do not have this box, nor have I seen it.”

  “But you’ve heard of it.”

  Hugo hesitated and then nodded.

  “Why? What do you know of it?”

  “Very little, ma’am. Important men in the city have made it clear to me that the box, should it come into my hands, was not to be opened. I was given instructions on how to deliver the box, should someone try to sell it to me.”
He paused again. “I was also told a second time, most explicitly, not to open the box.”

  “Who wants it?”

  “Ma’am, my clients are always confidential. I cannot—”

  “Please,” Irene said. “I can pay. The box belonged to my father, and I simply must get it back for him.”

  Hugo drummed his fingers on the glass display. He began to shake his head, but before he could speak, Irene stepped forward, pulled out her purse, and drew out a heavy gold bracelet set with sapphires. She placed it on the glass. Hugo’s eyes widened.

  “Surely this is enough for a few names,” Irene said. “Along with my promise of total discretion, of course.”

  “Of course,” Hugo murmured. He pointed to the bracelet. “May I?”

  Irene nodded.

  Hugo retrieved a jeweler’s loupe and studied the bracelet for several minutes. His long white beard was trembling with excitement by the time he had finished. Irene wondered how the man ever managed to get a good deal—his eagerness for the bracelet was palpable.

  “Perhaps, with a bit more compensation,” Hugo began.

  “I think not.” Irene snatched the bracelet from his hand and turned to walk towards the door. “I was not told that you would waste my time, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “A moment, ma’am. Wait just a moment.” Hugo hurried out from behind the displays. “I was simply wondering—”

  “Mr. Lawrence, I’m a bit pressed for time. Please forgive me for being abrupt. Do we have a deal?”

  Indecision flickered once more in the old man’s eyes, and then greed stamped it out. With his white beard quivering, Hugo Lawrence held out his hand and nodded.

  “Wonderful,” Irene said. “I’ll need addresses as well. And then I have a few additional pieces you may be interested in. All of strictly legal provenance, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, drastically increases their value.”

  With a look of bewilderment, Hugo Lawrence nodded, leading Irene to the back of the shop.

  That was when Irene began to haggle in earnest.

  Almost two hours later, still flushed with excitement, and her clutch heavy with the bundle of cash that Mr. Lawrence had produced in exchange for several of the more valuable pieces of jewelry, Irene left the shop. Hugo Lawrence stood in the doorway watching her. His face had lost its Santa Clause shine, and now he looked like a man who was certain he had been taken advantage of, but he was not exactly sure how. Irene gave him a smile and a wave, and then turned and hurried to call a cab.

  If Mr. Lawrence had been honest—and Irene was fairly sure that he had—the two men who had contacted him about the box were notorious gangsters. One, named Byrne, led the men who ran Kerry Patch. The other, who was known as the Dane, was a newcomer to the city and pushing hard against the older, more established criminal factions. None of it meant tops or tails to Irene, who had no knowledge of that side of the city. Aside from her two forays into Kerry Patch, the closest she had come to illegal behavior was Francis Derby, who had walked away from his actions without so much as a slap on the wrist. At the very least, though, that experience had showed her that law and order were as much an illusion as anything else.

  The revolver Irene carried, on the other hand, was quite real.

  A third visit to Kerry Patch in two days seemed unnecessary, and Irene didn’t like the thought of running into the man who had accosted her. Instead, she ordered the cabbie south, towards the neighborhood known as Tiffany. The address Mr. Lawrence had given her was on the south side of the neighborhood. Tiffany, as far as Irene knew, was yet another solid, middle-class neighborhood. The kind of place Irene had never spent much time, if only for the reason that she had no need to.

  The sun had lowered in the sky by the time the cab dropped her off two blocks west of the address. Irene was surprised; the day had gone quickly, and the cold was settling in. She stowed her clutch and her larger purse inside her coat, but she transferred the revolver—all six rounds chambered—to the outer pocket, where she could keep a tight grip on it.

  If she had a fair bit of luck, she might have the box by suppertime.

  The thought buoyed her spirits, and Irene strode towards the address, enjoying the calm and quiet of the neighborhood. The houses were cramped compared to the home she had grown up in, and the brick was worn, the fences in need of a few repairs. Even the streetlamps were scratched and scuffed. But it seemed a decent enough place. The street ahead ended in a cul-de-sac, and at the end of the cul-de-sac sat a brick apartment building with two wings and a flight of cement stairs running up the middle.

  At the next intersection, Irene paused. Dark was settling in fast now, draping bulky shadows across the streets, but Irene was still able to see a red-haired man coming down the street to her left. She drew back and waited.

  It was Cian Shea. What was he doing here?

  He turned towards the apartment building and took the stairs two at a time. Irene moved after him. Patrick had insisted that Cian was honest, but if that were the case, why was he meeting with one of the men who wanted the box? A shriek from the next street startled her, and Irene whipped around. Two children ran down the block, chased by a larger boy, and all three were laughing.

  Focus. She needed to focus.

  Cian had already disappeared into the building. Irene took the stairs to the top. Her shoes clapped on one of the steps, and she stopped on the landing, praying Cian hadn’t heard. After another minute, though, she proceeded up the final flight of stairs.

  The thunderbolt crack of gunfire stopped her. Irene heard a shout, and then wood splintering, and several more shots. She darted up the stairs and around the corner. At the end of the hall, a ruined door stood open, with a shotgun hanging halfway through a hole in the wood. As Irene turned into the apartment, she found a man dead on the floor. A trail of blood showed where he had dragged himself towards the door, and now he had one hand stretched out as he fumbled for the stock of the shotgun. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, and when he looked at Irene, there was hatred in his eyes.

  She kicked his hand away and grabbed the shotgun. The man made a last swipe at the gun, his breath gurgling, and then fell on his back. He was still. Irene didn’t know if he was breathing.

  Her eyes stung. Her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. The shotgun was unwieldy and heavy.

  Irene stumbled down the hall, past another dead man, his face and head destroyed by a gunshot. Irene’s breath came faster. The place smelled of blood and urine.

  She tried not to look at the pink and gray spatters on the wall.

  She was not going to run away.

  Cian’s voice pulled her deeper into the apartment. He stood in the rear bedroom with his back to her, talking to a sandy-haired young man who was holding a box. Irene recognized it instantly. The box Cian had brought to her house.

  “Nice to meet you, Sam,” Cian said. “Now, I think I’m going to take that box, and then we’re going to have a long talk about the Dane.”

  The man called Sam met Irene’s eyes over Cian’s shoulder. Irene lifted the revolver, and Sam winced. “Listen, pal,” he said to Cian. “I really appreciate the help, but I don’t think you’re going to be taking the box.”

  “And why’s that?” Cian asked.

  Irene jabbed him in the back with the tip of the revolver. Cian jerked away, but she kept the pressure up and said, “Because I am.”

  “Irene?” Cian asked.

  “Hi, Cian. Why don’t you step on over into the corner? I’ll take that box, since it’s mine anyway, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  Cian had a pistol in his hand—the same big gun Irene recognized from the night before—but he nodded and stepped over to the corner. When he turned around, he said, “This is a mistake, Irene. You’re getting yourself deeper into this mess.”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “You’d be right,” Cian said. “I don’t have much of a choice, though.”

  Irene kept the revolver on Sam and gestured
with her free hand. “I don’t either,” she said.

  Sam held out the box. Irene took it, and Sam stepped away, hands in the air. He looked every inch a thief: wiry and scruffy, barely more than a boy and the wrong kind of charming. The kind that left a foolish girl without her pearls or her maidenhead and nothing but a string of empty promises. He tried a smile on her. Irene didn’t bother smiling back.

  “I’ll leave you boys to figure things out,” Irene said. She stepped backwards, tucking the box under one arm. “No hard feelings.”

  “No,” Cian said. “None at all.”

  Sam was staring at the box the way a drowning man watches a passing ship.

  Irene stepped back again, into the hallway, keeping her eye on the bedroom in case either man decided to reconsider. On her third step, though, she bumped into someone. A hand tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Hello, Irene,” Harry Witte said, giving her a dazzling smile. He pulled the revolver from her hand, still smiling, and passed it back to Pearl. “I believe I said we wouldn’t meet again.”

  Cian shared a glum look with Sam after Irene left the room. It was the second time that the girl had gotten the drop on him. From the hall came her retreating footsteps, and then a muffled voice.

  A man’s voice.

  “Give that back,” Irene shouted.

  Cian plunged into the hallway. Irene stood face to face with Harry Witte. He lifted the box in both hands, holding it out of Irene’s reach, and over her head he gave Cian a wink.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Cian asked.

  “Cian, please,” Harry said. “There are ladies present.”

  Irene chose that moment to slap Harry. The blow turned his head a quarter of an inch.

  “Irene—” Harry began.

  She slapped him again. Both of the man’s cheeks were red now.

  “I think you’re overreacting,” Harry said.

  “Give me the box,” Irene said. “I found it. It belongs to my father.”

  “Technically,” Cian said. “I found it.” Harry and Irene gave Cian identical looks. Cian held up his hands. “Fine. Work it out between the two of you.”