The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  His lips pressed together, possibly in vexation. She wasn’t quite certain how to read that expression. Then he stepped back and left without another word.

  • • •

  As the tram drew closer to Matosinhos, Duilio could see the port of Leixões to the north. The port was an unfinished work that must either be considered art or an eyesore, progress brought to a standstill. The builders had begun constructing two stone “arms” intended to stretch out into the sea to act as breakwaters to protect the ships that would someday sail up the Leça River into the port. Silhouetted against the horizon, two Titans of iron and steel waited—giant steam-powered cranes that ran on rails to the ends of those breakwaters. One sat on each abandoned arm, capable of going back to work and moving giant blocks of stone . . . as soon as the prince should deign to give his permission. Duilio doubted that would happen while this prince was alive.

  Not for the first time, Duilio wondered if it wouldn’t be better for Northern Portugal if the seers were correct and the prince was doomed to die. Somehow Miss Paredes had changed the odds of that prophecy coming true. Not through her own choices, of course. She’d been forced into that position. He hated the price at which that had come. He sighed and returned to surveying the passengers of the tram.

  The man in the dark suit was the one who concerned him. When he’d gotten on the tram at Massarelos, a prickle had gone down Duilio’s spine. He’d settled a couple of seats behind Duilio and pulled a folded newspaper from under his arm. He didn’t appear to be an immediate danger, but Duilio felt sure the man had no other business there other than to watch him.

  Duilio dug into a pocket for his watch, flicked the lid open, and held the case to one side, trying to get a glance at the man’s face in the mirror secreted inside the lid. He didn’t look familiar. In his midthirties, dark-haired, and average in size, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Duilio studied him a moment longer while the man perused a copy of the Gazette. He closed the case then and slid the watch back into his pocket.

  While at the house Duilio had changed into a more casual suit—one that Marcellin found plebian. But it would be better for running should he find that necessary. He’d changed into less-formal shoes and picked up a spare gun, just in case. If this man intended to chase him down, he’d make it difficult.

  When the tram reached the end of the line, Duilio got off and began ambling toward the ships that bobbed on the river. He’d been to the area a few times in the past year, but wasn’t nearly as familiar with it as he would have liked. The man in the dark suit followed in a desultory manner, confirming Duilio’s suspicions.

  The Church of Bom Jesus rose majestically in the midst of a public park. Duilio walked up the steps, stopped at the threshold of the church, and crossed himself. He’d been especially lax in his devotions since his brother’s death, one of those things he occasionally resolved to change, usually following one of Joaquim’s lectures. He waited a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and wondering if someone would come to renounce him. The lack of any divine rebuke reassured him.

  He stepped forward into the gold-encrusted nave and spotted a fair-haired priest speaking to an elderly black-garbed woman. The priest nodded toward Duilio as if asking him to wait, so Duilio settled on one of the pews, determined to be patient. The young man eventually left the woman’s side and came to lend his priestly ear to Duilio.

  “Are you Father Barros?” Duilio asked without preamble.

  “I’m Father Crespo. How can I help you today, my son?”

  Duilio hoped his expression didn’t show his amusement at being called my son by a man who must be younger than himself. The priest couldn’t be much older than Cristiano. “I need to speak to Father Barros. Where might I find him?”

  The young man’s brows drew together. “I believe he’s closeted with the books, but I’ll inform him he’s needed here.” He scurried off toward the sacristy, much to Duilio’s relief.

  Not long after that, another priest emerged from the sacristy, an older man with graying hair and a stern visage. He presented himself to Duilio. “How can I help you today, son?”

  This time son made more sense. “I’ve come to make some inquiries,” he admitted. “Inspector Joaquim Tavares suggested you might be able to help me.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”

  Well, he couldn’t fault the man’s caution. “I am his cousin, Duilio Ferreira.”

  “Hmmm . . . you certainly resemble him,” Father Barros said. “Tell me, then, why did he not enter the priesthood after seminary?”

  If that question was meant as a test, he was about to fail miserably. Joaquim turned stubborn at times, refusing to discuss certain issues, even with family. He had an overdeveloped desire for privacy. “I honestly don’t know, Father,” Duilio admitted. “He’s never told me.”

  “He’s never told anyone, so far as I know. I thought perhaps . . .” The priest shrugged. “Here, Mr. Ferreira, come with me. I’ve not had luncheon yet. Let’s walk into town.”

  Duilio followed the man back through the nave and along a path that led to the back side of the church, away from its chapels and statues. They headed toward the town’s center, walking along the narrow cobbled streets among the noontime press of carts and pedestrians. Much like the streets around the Ribeira back in the Golden City, these buildings were old and packed together, with painted walls and iron-railed balconies. The priest led him to the front of one building, its pink facade decorated with only a sign marking it the Restaurant Lindo. “My cousin owns the place, so we can sit in the back as long as you need. Is that man in the dark suit following you?”

  “I believe so,” Duilio said without turning to look. “Not being terribly discreet, if you noticed him as well, though.”

  Father Barros laughed and pointed out a table in a dark corner of the room. “I wasn’t always a priest, son.”

  There had to be a story behind that short statement. If he weren’t pressed for time, he would have liked to get to know the priest better. Duilio headed back toward the corner and picked a chair situated so that he could see out into the street. The man in the dark suit passed the front of the restaurant as Duilio settled at the table. He moved on without pausing. Duilio felt gooseflesh prickle along his arms, but his gift seemed unconcerned at the moment, so he shook off the odd feeling. He could deal with that problem later.

  The priest settled across from him. “So, how does Inspector Tavares think I can help you, Mr. Ferreira?”

  Duilio looked about for a waiter. He’d only had time to grab one of Mrs. Cardoza’s meat pies at the house. He was still hungry. “We have a case that we’re working on, and I’m gathering background information.”

  The priest set his chin atop laced fingers. “About what?”

  “The City Under the Sea,” Duilio said.

  Barros sat back, shaking his head. “Ah. Gabriel Espinoza’s creation.”

  A chubby man with a white apron tied over his garb finally bustled over and offered to tell them the specials. “Thank you, Eusebio,” Barros said. “We’ll need some privacy, if you please. Just bring us whatever the cook has prepared, and . . . tea.”

  The waiter cast a curious look at Duilio but took himself away promptly.

  “So what about a bunch of floating houses could catch your interest?”

  Duilio pressed his lips together, trying to decide where to start. “We know for certain a young woman was trapped inside the house that went into the river recently.”

  “Inside?” The priest leaned forward, sounding incredulous.

  “Yes, tied to a chair. She was grabbed off the street, drugged, and placed inside the house while still unconscious. She had no chance of escaping alive once the house went into the water.”

  “You think Gabriel Espinoza did this?” Barros shook his head firmly. “No. He may be rather single-mi
nded in the pursuit of his lofty artistic goals, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

  Duilio stared at the priest, weighing the conviction in his tone. The man believed Espinoza’s innocence, so any mention of necromancy would get a similar appalled reaction. But given what Miss Paredes had said about Espinoza’s calculations not accounting for the victims, it seemed that aspect of the artwork wasn’t his doing at all. Duilio tried another tack. “When was the last time you spoke to Espinoza?”

  “January, right after Epiphany.” Barros frowned. “He came back to his parents’ home after some disagreement with his patron, and he came to see me. I’m not his confessor. It was just talk, but he was quite upset.”

  That had promise, and if it wasn’t a confession, Barros was at liberty to discuss their conversation. “Upset?”

  “Something about the artwork. He didn’t want to tell me. And that his patron wanted to move him somewhere out of the city, away from prying eyes and . . . nosy writers, I believe he said. They had an argument that got out of hand. Espinoza even showed me a cut on his forehead where they’d fought over it.”

  Duilio recalled that dark spot on the floor in the apartment’s dressing room. “He had a fight with his patron?”

  “Well, not the patron himself. The man the patron sent to check up on him. I haven’t seen him since he told me that, so he must have given in and moved out of the city.”

  That would put Espinoza’s disappearance in early January, about the time the fifth house had gone into the water. About when he’d stopped giving interviews. So something had changed abruptly then. Perhaps Espinoza had learned about the victims and objected. “Father, did Espinoza tell you who his patron was?”

  The priest mulled that over, his lips pursed. “He said the work was being funded by the government, the Ministry of Culture.”

  “I thought there was a single patron,” Duilio said.

  “I believe the Marquis of Maraval was personally overseeing the artwork. Espinoza considered him the primary patron.”

  The Marquis of Maraval? The Ministry of Culture performed functions like the installation of sculptures in the Treasury Building and the restoration of tile facades in older parts of the city. They kept a finger on what newspapers published. But they had no control over the Special Police. Duilio didn’t see how the minister could be involved. “I see. Have you ever heard of a group called the Open Hand?”

  Barros sat back. “Espinoza mentioned them once, although I wasn’t clear who they were.”

  “In what context?” Duilio asked.

  “It didn’t make sense.” Barros sighed. “Espinoza saw something. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it made him think they were subverting his work.”

  That was an odd choice of word. “Subverting?”

  “Yes. It sounded insane, but he truly believed it. Somehow they intended to use his work of art to make the prince into the king of all Portugal.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The restaurant had filled with all manner of folk from the town, fishermen and laborers and tradesmen. The noise within the narrow room grew chaotic, but nestled where they were in the back, Duilio could still hear his companion’s voice. Over a fine lunch, Father Barros painted a picture of Espinoza as a man obsessed with his art, but not evil at heart.

  It seemed that Espinoza was as much a victim in this as Miss Paredes.

  After paying for the meal, Duilio took his leave of the priest. “You’ve been very helpful, Father. Be cautious whom you tell about this. It would be better to say nothing.”

  The priest rose and shook his hand. “I understand. I hope you find the truth, Mr. Ferreira. And keep an eye out for the fellow I saw earlier.”

  Duilio hadn’t forgotten the man in the dark suit. “I will, Father.”

  When he got out to the street, the sky had cleared considerably. People hurried by on the cobbles, and he fell in behind a group of fisherwomen, their embroidered aprons bright splashes of color over their floral-print skirts. By the time he’d turned onto Serpa Pinto Street, Duilio’s gift warned him he was being followed again. It didn’t feel like a warning of imminent danger, but a reminder he should be aware.

  He ducked down Godinho Street. It was narrower and led only to the harbor’s construction yards and the southern breakwater, but would afford him a chance to see if anyone was behind him. There was little there beyond a few factory offices, which should minimize the number of bystanders who might be hurt should Mata appear and take a shot at him.

  As Duilio expected, the man in the dark suit—the one who’d followed him from the tram—appeared at the end of the street behind him. It wasn’t Mata, but there was no telling how many people were working with him.

  Duilio reached inside his jacket, unsnapped his holster, and searched the area about him. There was no traffic in sight; too close to lunchtime. Ahead of him waited the abandoned construction yard with its neat rows of giant granite blocks. He could only hope he got there before anything happened . . . and that Inspector Gaspar and Joaquim were keeping an eye on him, as planned.

  The granite blocks would supply excellent cover. The ocean beyond the yard presented an escape route as well; he could outswim most men. He would need to reach the water first, though. Duilio jumped the gate into the construction yard, edged between two rows of stone blocks, and headed toward the giant crane on its rails at the end of the unfinished breakwater.

  His gift abruptly warned him, a spasm down his spine.

  His mind raced, taking in everything about him. Shadows moved on the far left of his vision. From that direction his nose picked up the tang of perspiration. The man in the dark suit was behind him, still on the road, which meant someone else was in the construction yard already. Mata? Weighing the distance between himself and the iron base of the Titan, Duilio bolted that way.

  He’d almost reached it when a shot rang out. Duilio crouched but kept moving. That shot went high, pinging off the body of the crane with a metallic whine.

  Reprieved, he threw himself the final few feet toward the Titan’s base.

  He stumbled over the rail on which the crane ran but managed to get behind the iron wheels. His heart was racing, pulse thudding in his ears. He glanced up at the base of the crane that shielded him—terrifyingly huge now that he was under its bulk. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he quickly looked down, noting for the first time the revolver in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing the thing.

  There was movement in the yard. He could hear the scuffling of feet on gravel. One man called to another, confirming there was more than one person about. Duilio huffed out a breath, pressed the side of his face against the cool iron, and made himself breathe slower so he could listen. What was going on out there?

  Another shot sounded. This one ricocheted off the ground near his left hand, sending a shower of rock chips spraying about. He jerked back, but not before a chip caught the side of his cheek. He hissed and pressed the back of his right hand against the cut. It came away bloody.

  Damnation. He needed to get behind his attackers, however many there were. Out here on the end of the breakwater, they couldn’t miss him if he made a run for it. They had him pinned down behind the Titan’s wheels. He glanced toward the edge of the breakwater more than a dozen feet away. His mind spun, trying to weigh the odds.

  He didn’t want to kill anyone today, but he might not have any choice. He could swim back to the quay and get behind the man. The revolver would probably still fire, which gave him six shots, but he couldn’t trust the old derringer once it got wet.

  A third shot hit the iron wheel near him. Duilio jerked back and pressed himself against the wheel again. Two more shots followed. They sounded like they’d come from different spots, farther away, but he couldn’t be sure. Duilio held his breath.

  Above the wind and the clinking of the chains hanging from the Titan’s boom, he heard moaning. He dared
a glimpse in that direction and saw Mata slumped against the stones, clutching his belly.

  “He’s down, Mr. Ferreira,” a man with a Brazilian accent shouted. “Come on out.”

  Duilio didn’t think the Brazilian was in league with Mata. Surely he wouldn’t announce himself that way if he were. That didn’t necessarily mean he could trust the Brazilian, and his gift supplied nothing. But he needed the answer enough to risk going out there.

  Mata lay next to the first row of giant granite blocks, with the man in the dark suit standing over him, his pistol trained loosely on Mata. Inspector Gaspar approached, jumping over the gate at the entrance of the construction yard. Once he reached them, Gaspar knelt down and began to check Mata’s injuries.

  Duilio walked cautiously along the rails toward them. His heart was still thumping erratically, but at least his breathing sounded normal. When he’d gotten within a dozen feet, he paused. “Who are you?”

  The man in the dark suit came toward him, giving Duilio a better look than he’d gotten on the tram. He had slender features and a lean build, suggesting athleticism, but he seemed tired, worn. His dark gray suit was of a modest Portuguese cut, and his composure after a shoot-out suggested he’d seen the like before. “Anjos,” he said in his Brazilian accent. “Inspector Gabriel Anjos.”

  Gaspar nodded curtly to Duilio, confirming that, and turned his attention back to the assassin. He’d opened Mata’s waistcoat and shirt and was surveying a seeping injury that looked to be near the man’s liver. A police-issue pistol lay a few feet away, ignored.

  “Would have been nice to know who you were sooner,” Duilio said to Anjos.

  “There wasn’t time,” Anjos replied. “You’ve got a nick on your cheek.”