by Frank Tuttle
I frowned. “What was it about his looks your friend didn’t like?”
Rupert snorted. “Looked rich,” he said. He eyed my jacket. “Sort of like you do, today.”
I laughed. Then an idea struck me.
“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. But I wonder-could you help me one more time?”
He shrugged, suddenly suspicious.
“Relax. It’s nothing. I was just wondering if you’d walk half a block with me, and look at a man at the Sidewalk Cafe, and tell me if you’ve seen him hanging around the Velvet before.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Sure. It’s on my beat. Go now?”
I smiled. “Now is good.” Rupert turned and we strolled toward the Velvet.
People melted out of his way, even the ones that smiled or nodded in greeting. The traffic master at Maylot stopped traffic and waved us through. Even ogres slowed their manure-carts at the sight of a blunt-topped blue Watchman’s cap.
We rounded the last corner.
“There,” I said, pointing with my chin. “The last table, by the flower pot.”
Rupert squinted. “Him?” he said, incredulous. “Ronnie Sacks?”
I nearly fell over. I’d just been hoping Rupert had seen him on the street before. “You know him?”
“We grew up on the same street. He dated my cousin Rebecca. Fell off her roof trying to sneak in one night. We called him Ronnie the Donney.”
Donney is an epithet, named after a war-time general who mixed his flag-signals and opened the gates of Imprege to a Troll infantry assault.
My heart began to sing.
“You know what Ronnie does for pay, these days?”
Rupert’s brow furrowed. “He went to work for House Avalante last year. Something about guarding payroll transfers.”
I had a name and a House. I must have been beaming. I nearly patted Rupert on his blue-capped head.
“He got something to do with this Miss Hoobin’s going missing? He’s an idiot, but I never figured him for much else.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know a thing about him. But he’s taken a recent strong interest in me.”
Rupert sighed. “I can have him picked up, if you think he’s hurting women. Just say the word.”
I was tempted. But as far as I knew, he’d done nothing but bungle a morning of following finders.
“Not today.” Another inspiration struck, and I rummaged in my new jacket pocket for the comb.
“Ever see something like this?”
He shook his head no. “Sorry.”
I wrapped it again, put it away. “No matter.” Across the street from us, young Ronnie was being told he was taking up one table too many and it was time to move on and let paying lunch customers enjoy their view of the Velvet.
He left in a huff, took up a post half a block away, never even walked around to see if the Velvet had a back way.
Rupert got restless. I thanked him and walked with him a bit, letting him talk about this and that just in case he revealed anything else about Cousin Ronnie or silver combs.
He didn’t. But I was smiling all the same. I’d found Nervous Hat, and he had a name, and I knew it, and now, just maybe, I’d have something to show for spending Ethel’s hard-earned cash on hats and jackets.
The day wore on. I watched Darla leave, pulled down my hat when she looked my way. Hooga dipped his hat to her, and she darted smiling out into the street in a swirl of long purple skirts.
Ronnie Sacks paid her no attention whatsoever. I revised my estimate of his taste and intelligence down a few notches. Then I turned in triumph, hailed a cab and gave the driver directions. He took in the cut of my jacket and the turn of my hat and didn’t blink an eye when I mentioned House Avalante.
I had the cabbie leave me a block from the House itself. I stepped down onto the sidewalk, tipped him and watched him go.
Then I was alone. All alone on the Hill and the sun was falling fast. The tall old oaks that shaded the lawns at noon were now engulfing the whole neighborhood in shadow. I’d spotted a marble bench on a corner, across from the tall iron gates that marked the entrance to House Avalante, and I made my way toward it.
The lawns smelled of fireflowers and fresh-cut grass. Here and there gardeners worked, clipping and trimming and mowing. They kept their gazes on the ground and if they saw me they never let me know it.
I consoled myself with reminders that not all the rich houses about me were peopled with halfdead. And even those that were, I knew, were not about to venture forth, daylight or dark, and pursue the neighbors or the help with fork and knife in hand. Vampires might lay snoozing mere feet away, I knew, but these were rich snob vampires, and such behavior is considered gauche.
No, places like Cambrit-where the rich and the powerful are likely to break their fast-curfew breakers are plenty, and under the terms of the law, fair game.
I found the bench, sat, admired the lazy way the grass tossed and blew in the wind. Two lawns away, a trio of children laughed and screeched and ran, tossing a ball back and forth while a white poodle wearing a long red ribbon darted yapping among them.
The coward sun sank. A maid appeared, herded the children inside. The gardeners stopped now and then to squint up at the sky.
About the time they began to gather their tools, a cab-a clean black glass-windowed cab, from the good part of town-rattled up to the curb, and my own Mister Nervous Hat climbed out, coins in his hand for the driver.
He saw me. I grinned, stood and yelled for the cabbie to hold for another fare.
Nervous Hat gulped and dropped a pair of jerks.
I stepped over, bent, scooped them up.
“Here you are, Ronnie,” I said, handing them to him. “How are things with all the Sacks, these days?”
The driver, who by now knew something was up, snatched the coins away and scowled.
“I ain’t got time for this,” he growled, producing a wrought-iron truncheon from beneath his seat and banging it down hard beside him. “I’m leavin’. You want a ride, get in.”
I doffed my hat to Ronnie in a grand gesture of farewell. “Do tell your masters I said hello,” I said, as I opened the cab’s door. “They’ll be pleased to know you kept me company today.”
Ronnie Sacks stepped back, face going crimson, gobbling back a useless denial.
I replaced my hat and closed the door.
As the cab pulled away, I saw movement in the windows of House Avalante. A door opened, and a tall figure clad in black emerged to stand in the deep shadows of the wide front porch.
Ronnie watched me go. He knew they’d seen, knew they’d watched me waiting on the bench all afternoon. He didn’t look happy. I guessed he’d have some explaining to do, to those who perhaps lacked both mercy and shame.
I grinned and hummed and admired my face in the glass all the way home.
Chapter Six
The weeds and cracked bricks of Cambrit were quite a letdown after the quiet lanes and stately manors of the Hill. I arrived home well before Curfew, impressed my driver with a tip, and heard Darla’s laughter from behind Mama’s door before I reached my own.
I paused, smiled and adjusted my hat before knocking.
“Who’s there?” shouted Mama.
“The Regent sends his greetings, Madam Hog,” I intoned, in my best Lord of the Realm baritone. “Would you perhaps grant us an audience?”
Mama opened her door.
Darla stood beside Mama. Her eyes went wide. I doffed my new hat, made a bow that made my back pop.
“My lady.”
Darla stepped outside, extended her hand. I took it. Her eyes twinkled in the dying sun.
“Damn, boy,” said Mama, trundling out beside Darla. “What happened? You rob a haberdasher?”
I sighed. Darla laughed again. The spell was broken, and my feet began to ache.
“Not exactly.” Darla let go of my hand. “I’m glad you came to see me. But it’s late. You
’ll never get home before Curfew.”
“Maybe I won’t go home at all,” she replied. She stepped so close I could smell bubble bath in her hair. “Maybe I’ll stay.” She let a pause linger. “With Mother Hog, of course.”
Mama snorted. “Don’t do that to him no more. Look at them ears. He’s about to blow a seam.”
Darla winked. “Hooga has the night off. He’s bringing his wagon around to collect me shortly. I’ll wrap myself up in a blanket and even the Watch will think I’m Hooga’s wife or his daughter.” She slipped her arm through mine, turned us toward my office, said goodbye to Mama Hog.
I walked.
“Come now, Markhat,” she said, as we neared my door. “You’ve kept me waiting all day. The least you can do is offer me a chair and some company.”
I fumbled for my key. The wind rustled her skirts, and she reached into my bag and pulled out last year’s grey hat.
“This one suits you better.” I turned the key as she took my new hat from my head, replaced it with the grey one, and eyed me critically. “The black makes you look like an undertaker.” She put the black hat on her own head, adopted a somber expression. “See?”
Mama Hog laughed and slammed her door. I opened mine, ushered Darla in, winced when the slanting light streaming past cast the breadcrumbs on my desk into sudden high relief.
Darla swept past, still wearing my black hat. She spun once, taking in my office, swirling her skirt up nearly to her knees.
I closed the door. “I see I need to fire another butler. Looks like Earles left me a mess.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Darla. “It’s not so bad.” She hung my black hat carefully up on my leaning coat rack, and then nodded toward the door at the back of my office. “Is that where you sleep?”
I put down my bag, hung up my coat and put the grey hat next to the black. “When I sleep, that’s where I sleep.”
“I see.” She gave me a grin. “Time for the tour later.” Then she looked down and past me, toward the floor next to the door I’d just closed. “What’s that?”
I turned. An envelope lay on the floor, after having been pushed beneath it from the street. I hadn’t seen it when we’d entered.
I stooped and picked it up. The envelope was brilliant white, more like cloth than paper, and it bore my name and address in a tall plain hand.
Darla glided to stand beside me. She touched the paper gently, made an oohing sound.
“My, what fancy friends you have, Mister Markhat. Aren’t you going to open it?”
She was so close we touched, at hips and shoulders, and again I smelled her hair. Which is probably why I opened the envelope without first letting Mama wave her bones over it to see if the paper was hexed.
It wasn’t. Inside was a single page of fine white paper, folded twice. I could see words on it, not hex signs, so I unfolded it.
Darla stepped suddenly away. “It isn’t polite to read someone else’s mail.” She pulled back my client’s chair and sat. “I’ll wait here until you’re done.”
The paper bore names. A dozen of them, in the same hand as the address, in a neat straight line down the page. The only one I recognized-the last-was Martha Hoobin.
Below the names were the words:
Talk at midnight. Your office. If you choose not to open the door I will of course not come in.
And below that were two characters I took to be initials-E.P.
Darla watched me read. I must have frowned.
“Bad news?”
I crossed to my side of the desk. Before I sat, I handed her the paper. “Probably. Do you know any of these names? Aside from Martha’s?”
She read, shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. They’re all women’s names, though, aren’t they?”
She handed me the letter, and I looked it over again. There was a Kit Ersen and a Banda Rup. Either of those could have been a man’s name or a woman’s. But all the rest were obviously female, all Usulas and Berets and Allies.
Twelve names. Twelve women, probably, with Martha Hoobin at the end of the list.
“Do you know E.P.?” asked Darla.
I shook my head. “Not at the moment,” I replied. “But I guess I will, come midnight.”
The humor went out of Darla’s eyes. “There’s only one kind of person who makes appointments after Curfew. They’re fond of expensive stationery too.”
I folded the list. “Not necessarily. Anyway, trouble usually just shows up. It doesn’t make appointments.”
She shivered. She put her hands in her lap and she tried to hide it, but she shivered.
“I’ve dealt with the Houses before. They don’t bite Markhats. We taste of strong bright sun and good clean living.”
She didn’t laugh. “They scare me,” she said, softly. “They ought to scare you too. Walking around after Curfew-are you trying to get killed?”
I leaned back. “You heard about last night.”
A bit of fire crept back into her voice. “Oh, I heard. Some of the cleaning girls are New People. You’re all they’ve talked about. The bold finder Markhat, whistling down the street. By tomorrow they’ll have you lighting your cigars with flaming vampire corpses and kicking down Troll strongholds with the heels of your dressing slippers.”
I frowned. “Dressing slippers don’t have heels, do they?”
Darla came forward, caught my hand across the desk, pulled it toward her. “Listen to me. I like you. I’d like to spend a year or two getting to know you. I’d like to teach you how to read and trim your hair and knit you a pair of earmuffs for Yule. But I won’t get to do any of that if you make midnight strolls down Arbuckle Avenue part of your exercise regimen.”
I bit back a short reply. There was something in her voice, something making it shake, something tingeing it with fear.
Inspiration dawned.
“You’ve been talking to Mama. She pulled out her cards and turned down the lamps and convinced you she could see my untimely demise unless I mend my wicked ways.” She’d do that, too, I thought. Just her little way of getting things said that she knew I’d not bear coming from her.
Darla gripped my hand harder. “She was reading her cards when I came in. And she wouldn’t tell me what she saw. But I know people, Markhat. She saw something. And whatever it was scared her.” She realized how tight she held me, let loose, leaned back. “We both know what Mama is, most of the time.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “But you sit there and you tell me it’s all fake, all the time. Tell me it’s all put-on. Tell me, and I’ll forget all about it.”
“It’s all fake, all put-on, all the time.”
“Liar.” She found a smile. Not a big one, not a strong one. But maybe she knew she’d pushed too hard. “Just promise me one thing. Will you do that?”
“Ask, and we’ll see.”
“Just be careful. More than usual. Especially after dark. Can you do that, Markhat? Just for a while?”
I sighed. “I promise. And speaking of Curfew breaking-it’s getting pretty dark out there right now, and I’m not the one ten blocks from home.”
“What have I to fear, when the valiant finder Markhat is at my side?” She batted her eyes at me, gave me a sly grin. “You will keep an eye on me, won’t you?”
“I promise. You’re safe with me.”
“You mean it?”
“I do.” I must have looked suddenly puzzled. She’d lost her grin, lost the playful twinkle in her eyes. I realized something had happened, but couldn’t place it from the words we’d spoken.
She took a deep breath. “I asked around today,” she said, looking away. “About Martha.”
“And what did you hear?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “I asked the girls if they’d seen her with anyone. Asked if she’d gotten any messages, or sent any runners, or gotten any flowers on All Heart’s Day. She hadn’t, she didn’t, and she hadn’t.” Darla sighed. “I guess that isn’t much help.”
“It tells me where not to look
. That’s something. Especially coming from people I couldn’t ask.”
She bit her lip. “There’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t really want to tell you.”
“Which means you certainly should tell me.”
She sighed again, brought up her hands, put them on the desk. Her knuckles were white. She took a breath and looked away.
“The day Martha disappeared, she had a bag. In the bag was eleven hundred crowns.”
I whistled. “Paper or coin?”
“Paper,” said Darla. She looked up at me. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she added, quickly. “Martha didn’t steal the money. I gave it to her. It was mine. We’d been planning to open a dressmaker’s shop. The eleven hundred was my share.”
I fought the urge to rise. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, but I didn’t. I’ll always regret that.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
She shook her head, finally looked back at me. “Eleven hundred crowns? I was sure you’d quit looking. Sure you’d figure Martha just took the money and bought a stage ticket.”
“Do you think that’s what she did?”
I waited. Eleven hundred crowns-gods, you could buy your own stagecoach line for that, and have enough left over for a small house or two.
“Maybe I did, at first. Maybe I was angry. Maybe I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight. But I decided something, finder, after you came to see me. I decided Martha was my friend. Martha was no thief and I ought to be ashamed of myself for thinking such a thing.”
I opened my mouth to tell her she shouldn’t be ashamed, but she spoke again first.
“I know eleven hundred crowns is a lot of money. It was everything I had. But if you’re about to tell me that you think Martha ran away with it, then you’re not the man I think you are.”
“I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say that if Martha Hoobin wanted eleven hundred crowns she could have gotten twice that by raiding Ethel’s sock-drawer.” I recalled the ragged stuffed bear, tucked away in a chest with a pillow under its head. “Whatever this is about, it isn’t about your money. I’m not going to stop looking for Martha.”