Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  “Oh, excellent. Love those little squeaks you make.” His breaths were ragged, panting as if he’d run a race. “Lars, bring a light around here so I can see the marks before I recommence my work.”

  Footsteps dragged past. Her eyes watered until she couldn’t see past her own feet. Couldn’t think past the pain on her back, in her arms. Oh God, her back was carpeted with fire. The pain streamed into her.

  “Beautiful,” murmured Smythe. “Fifty? Yes?” Lars said something and laughed. “Yes. I do agree, she has a pretty back and it does squirm well. Now. Shush while I work or I’ll lose count or make her bleed. And you know I hate blood.”

  Fifty. The finite number made it seem bearable. So she counted too, six, nine, fourteen, until at about seventeen everything blurred and went gray then descended into a blotchy panting black that spun endlessly and numbered the strokes of the whip in doses of demonic screams. Her legs went limp and she hung there like a corpse, with her shoulders almost dislocating from the awful weight, only shuddering at the never-ending blows that hit and hit and hit.

  Strips of her skin must hang from her. Blood must stain her back, the floor. The whip must be decorated with tattered pieces of her flesh.

  When Smythe came up to her and kissed her hard on the cheek with one hand woven like steel into her hair, she barely flinched.

  “What a lovely sight you are, all exhausted and waiting for more. Unfortunately I must now leave you to Lars’s tender mercies. Take care with him. He’s not as gentle as am I.

  “You make sure to do what I told you to do at the cemetery–make it look like some kooky dawn sacrifice. Cut her heart out or something?”

  “Sure,” Lars said, the word almost a grunt.

  “Good.”

  She watched, dumb and unthinking, trying her hardest just to breathe. When her chest moved, her skin moved, and the pain lit up all over again. Smythe stalked to the door and opened it, standing for a moment in the rectangle of light with a hand on the door frame. The light from the doorway shrank to a triangle then vanished. The door clicked into place. Gone.

  Panting, with the agony lacing her back and scorching pathways of fire into her, she lifted her head and stared.

  Now there was only her and Lars–big, rancid, muscular Lars–who had a smile that could crack a rock. The man who liked his women very, very still. What that meant, she really didn’t want to know, but, she was smart, and she’d already worked it out.

  “Come here.” A stupid instruction. With that wide, serrated smile, he walked to her and worked at the knot above and let her down.

  Her arms were numb and she let him truss her again like some farm animal being readied for slaughter, only squeaking and grunting at the worst of the new pains. No muscle on her body would work. When he roughly grabbed at her breasts and worked a finger into her pussy she could do nothing. He chuckled and gave her a moist kiss before leaving her. Tears dribbled down her already soaked face.

  Later, she curled up on her side near the wall and, after a while, she started to pick at the knots on her ankles. The rope was hard and far tougher than her nails. Soon, blood wet all her fingertips. The sting built. She didn’t stop though; she kept picking at the rope. She didn’t stop until her hands shook and bled so much she couldn’t feel anything except pain, everywhere.

  Chapter 31

  Once the engine was lowered in, there was little Leonhardt could do except hand Jimmy tools and that was something almost anyone could do. When Mawson arrived and informed him he’d found Mrs. Willoughby via Jeremy as suggested, and that Faith was not among them, he promptly found another man to take his place as a tool holder. The receptionist at the hotel had apologized profusely. She’d mistaken another woman, of similar appearance, for Faith.

  God in Heaven, where is she?

  “You go off and find her, Mr. Meisner,” Jimmy said, voice muffled due to him standing on a stepladder with his head half-buried in the engine. He straightened, with hand and spanner gripping the side of the cockpit, then frowned. “Only, give us a hoy if you need help. Faith’s not the sort of lady to vanish without telling someone where she is.” He rubbed his forehead. “Leastways, I think not. With you two an’ all, maybe that’s changed. Maybe she’s off nursing a broken heart or something. You be careful with her feelings.”

  “I will, Jimmy. I’m going to make it up to her, I promise, and thank you for all your help. Come on, Mawson.”

  He shrugged on his coat and did up buttons as they headed back through the crowds to the automobile. Where was Faith? If not at either hotel, then where? Like Jimmy had said, she wasn’t the sort of woman to be totally flustered by any turn of events, no matter how devastating. Was she?

  He thought through the plan on the drive to his house.

  “Mawson, if she’s gone anywhere, it’ll be to the Heliopolis Hotel–” Yet she’d not arrived there. Blast. A chill settled over him. Had she had some accident? No. Never assume the worst.

  “Sir? You were saying?”

  He turned the car and parked next to the curb before his house, switched off the motor. “We are going to follow the street along the way Miss Evard would have walked, if she was headed to the Heliopolis Hotel from here.”

  “Yes. Sir.”

  Not a question had come from Mawson. Not a single, why. “Thank you, Mawson.”

  Mawson blinked, brushed some lint from his dark-gray trousers and said quietly, “I understand, sir. Life is full of mishaps. We’ll find her.”

  Lord, he hoped so. If he’d been a nervous sort, he’d have chewed the inside of his cheeks raw by now.

  How could one woman make him feel like some sort of green, guileless lover? He prayed she’d just walked off to somewhere he’d not thought of yet. He hated feeling like this. When he got her back, he was going to spank her backside so damn hard.

  They didn’t find her, but a hundred yards on, Mawson knelt and picked up something long and shiny from the stone-paved footpath.

  Leonhardt took it from him–a jeweled hairpin, with a small green stone glinting at the end. “It’s hers.” He looked about. Nothing else remarkable showed. “Let’s go ask the neighbors.”

  Every house was owned by someone ranked in the elite of Egyptian or British society. At the third house, a haughty doorman in blue livery informed Leonhardt of a black Packard with yellow-and-brass trim that had been seen just outside the night before.

  “Smythe’s,” Leonhardt murmured. “Hell and blast it. No. The man wouldn’t dare.”

  “Sir?” Mawson leaned in.

  “I think that has to be Smythe’s. There are only a few hundred automobiles in Cairo and I doubt anyone else has a Packard that color. I remember it clearly outside his place of business.”

  And Smythe had a reason to hate him. Yet would he dare to attack Faith? Damn him. Surely not?

  There wasn’t enough reason to involve the police. What could he tell them? That a woman might be missing? That Smythe might be involved?

  “Mawson, let’s get to Smythe’s residence. I have questions to ask him.” With every moment that passed the certainty ground into him. Smythe was involved, somehow.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The questions would be punctuated with a fist if he’d kidnapped Faith.

  Never had such a short drive been fraught with so much tension. The timber steering wheel cut a numb path across his palms.

  He stopped out the front of Smythe’s house, put on the hand brake then fished the Webley revolver from the glove compartment and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Come on, Mawson. Remember your savate?”

  “Yes, sir. I do indeed. Will it be needed?”

  “Don’t know. Just...be prepared.”

  “I will, sir. I’ll bring my baton.”

  His heart thudding like a jackhammer and hands cold as ice, he knocked at the door to the house. Smythe’s butler, a tall, stick-thin man in somber gray opened the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I am Leonhardt Meisner. Is Mr. S
mythe in residence?”

  The butler scowled. “No, sir. Perhaps you should return later.”

  “Would you know where he is? Or when he might return?”

  “No, sir. I do not.”

  From the stern face of the butler, he was unlikely to get further information.

  “Thank you. I will return later.”

  Once back in the automobile he sank back in the seat, and thought a while. Late afternoon. The sun was going down. If– He ran his finger and thumb down his nose, then made his heart settle...a pity his stomach wouldn’t obey so well. If Smythe had Faith, he needed a plan, one that had the best chance of working. The police wouldn’t get involved on so little evidence. Not easily anyway.

  “Mawson?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man turned in the passenger seat, face hard with concentration. “I’m here. Tell me what you want me to do. I can see this is something of importance, that Miss Evard may be in danger, and I am here for you, sir.”

  Well. A pleasant surprise there. “Thank you.” He reached out and shook Mawson’s hand. “You’re a man of great depth, Mawson.” He heaved out a sigh. “Right. I need you to deliver a message to Hasim and to Jeremy. I’ll drive you to the hotel so you can get a cab then wait here and watch in case Mr. Smythe returns.”

  He prayed Hasim would be able to convince the police to help. Without them, finding Faith might be impossible.

  Chapter 32

  Lars had let her use a chamber pot that afternoon when she became so desperate, she’d attracted his attention. The alternative–to do it where she lay seemed even worse. When he’d cautiously removed the gag, she’d told him what she wanted. Having him stare at her while she sat there would have mortified her only a day earlier, now though, she was simply too exhausted and too weak to be bothered showing shame.

  Her throat was so dry. Her back screamed at her whenever she shifted. Maybe there wasn’t blood but if felt like she’d been trampled by a herd of donkeys. Her whole body was parched and scrunched up like a piece of paper left in the desert sun. No water or food had been offered, and though she’d begged for a drink before Lars replaced the gag, he’d given her nothing.

  Obviously, he didn’t care if she died thirsty. So, so thirsty. Tears had abandoned her and refused to come despite the overwhelming grief sweeping her in haphazard waves. She would die without talking to Leonhardt again.

  That single thought hammered her over and over. What she’d say to him, if she ever saw him again, she didn’t know. Nothing in her head was working too well. Thoughts skittered like fat on a frying pan. Nothing seemed in the right place. She knew, though, she’d not let him go again without a fight.

  Night came. She slept, in fits and starts. Waking, every few minutes–sweating, heart fluttering–to renewed terror at the sight of Lars, a dark monstrosity silhouetted in moonlight.

  Only this last time he rose and walked to her, shoes crunching on the dirty concrete, his filthy breath preceding him like the bow wave of a ship packed with the dead.

  “Time to go, little lady. Hope you like cemeteries...and knives.” He laughed at his joke then pulled her to her feet and hefted her over his shoulder. Hands and ankles still tied, hanging head down over his back, gagged and so tired, there was nothing she could do, but she tried. She wriggled and heaved with her legs.

  “Stop that!” He swung so her head whacked against a timber post.

  Pain flared red inside her temple, her mind turned to gray fuzz. By the time she could think again, he’d dumped her in a car, covered her partly with a blanket and was driving somewhere. From the increasing light at the blanket’s edges, dawn approached.

  Where was help? Where was anyone? Surely somebody had seen something? She tried to worm her way upright. Something jerked at her neck. Coughing into the gag, she subsided and let the rattling bumps from the floor of the car shake their way into her brain.

  “Be careful!” Lars chuckled. “There’s a rope around your neck. Now. When we get on the horse, no mucking about. Smythe’s not here so maybe I use the knife early, hey? So you be good lady and no messing round.”

  Struggle and he’d knife her. Don’t struggle...and he’d kill her anyway, only a bit later. She giggled and giggled until it turned into hiccups and her eyes burned with unshed tears. The car kept going. Nothing she did mattered anymore. Would anyone miss her at all?

  Leonhardt would. Tears squeezed out as that certainty coalesced. Leonhardt would remember her.

  * * * *

  The interior of the car grew cool as he waited. A solitary cricket scratched out its call to the females of its species. Hasim turned up at 11:00 PM.

  The crunch of footsteps warned him and he swung the door open. The night sky had gained a blue tone at the rising of the moon. An owl hooted.

  Hasim was a black silhouette beside another who must be Mawson. “Leonhardt. Seen anything?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “No. Where are the police? I’m sure now that Faith has been taken by Smythe. We need to get a search going.”

  “Of the whole of Cairo? At night? Most of the constables will be in bed.”

  “Hasim.” He tried not to grind his teeth. “If he has her...the things that might be happening while we dither.”

  The gravel crunched as Hasim moved his feet. And not speaking while the man thought through what he’d already figured out over the last few hours was excruciating.

  “Okay. I understand. I’ve parked a hundred yards back. I’ll use some of my clout and get things moving as much as possible. Will you stay here?”

  Would he? This was Smythe’s home...going haring about Cairo was needle in a haystack stuff. “I’ll stay. If you can think of any other avenues to take...any properties owned, rented by Smythe...she could be there.”

  “Right.” Keys tinkled faintly for a minute or more as if he was considering opinions, running through possibilities. “We found a lot of his shadier dealings and acquaintances before we went in and got the woman out. I’ll pass on the information to the police.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t worry, Leonhardt.” Hasim leaned in and grasped his shoulder, squeezed. “We’ll find her.”

  He nodded, then closed the vehicle’s door and listened as Hasim walked away, and then to the muted roar of his motorcar’s engine. Silence drifted in. Mawson slid back into the other seat.

  “Long wait, sir.”

  “Yes.” He tugged his coat in closer then shivered. The chill was getting to him. Did Faith have enough clothes to keep her warm? She’d gone missing in a light dress. Was she even... He shut his eyes, forced the thought to its conclusion. Was she still alive? “Yes. A damn long wait.”

  By three in the morning he had a young Egyptian constable sharing the car with him. The police had questioned the butler but gained very little from it. There was another constable inside the house waiting, just as they were outside. At just after seven with dawn about an hour away, Smythe returned.

  The constable gripped the back of Leonhardt’s seat and moved close to whisper, “There he is.”

  “Yes. Indeed.” Even by the pallid light of the moon the distinctive trim of the car coasting to a stop at the front of the house, marked it as Smythe’s.

  “We’ll wait a moment, sir, and then go in after him.”

  “No. We’re going now.” Given enough of a chance, he and his butler might overpower the constable. “Follow me.” He checked the revolver was in his pocket then smoothly opened the door.

  “Sir! You must wait.”

  The constable scurried after him as he marched toward Smythe’s front door. The door was ajar, he stepped in, nudging it with his shoulder, his hand on the concealed gun.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the mustached police officer in the foyer was saying. “I must insist on us... Constable Trentman! What are you doing?” He glared over Leonhardt’s shoulder at the constable panting hard behind him. Another set of footsteps would be Mawson.

  “Shall we all retire to my office?”
Smythe suavely swept the group with a cold smile, treating Leonhardt to an especially thoughtful pause. “That might be a sensible place for us all.”

  “Of course, sir.” The mustached constable ushered Smythe and his butler ahead down a long hallway.

  The carpet muffled their footfalls. Like a funeral procession, but if anyone died, it would be Smythe. The revolver swung inside Leonhardt’s coat. Not that killing him would help...it wouldn’t help at all, but if he’d done anything to Faith. No. He let the tension leave his muscles, rolled his shoulders. He needed to keep a level head.

  At the very end of the hall the stony-faced butler opened a set of double doors.

  In the large office–a place of warm timber tones, green wallpaper and down-turned desk lamps–Smythe chose to sit on the solitary timber-and-burgundy chair. Beside it was a large table stacked with neat piles of paper and leather-bound books.

  “Please.” He indicated the burgundy couch. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  The butler closed the doors and stood beside them with his arms by his sides–a wooden soldier waiting for orders. The two police constables sat on the couch, their white uniforms as conspicuous as flags of truce.

  “Sitting seems a waste of time.” And a poor way to dominate the room. Leonhardt left Mawson to keep the butler company and perched on the corner of the desk, a few feet from Smythe.

  “Don’t wrinkle any documents, Leonhardt.” Smythe gave a languid smile. “Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  The senior officer sat up. “A young woman has gone missing. A Miss Faith Evard. We have reason to believe, sir, that you may be involved.”

  “Ah. I see. Would you have a daguerreotype of the young woman? To refresh my memory.” He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and a tin of matches. “Smoke if you wish to.”

  “You know very well what she looks like, Smythe. You saw her yesterday outside your brothel when we rescued Beth from you.” Leonhardt kept his unblinking gaze on the man, though it seemed to faze him not at all. “The woman you’d beaten black and blue.”