Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “Taking that bicycle out for another go around,” Archie informed Raleigh, his disapproving valet. “They’re becoming all the rage. Saw a couple of young men racing down Sweeney Hill on them yesterday. Seemed rather mad, but fun as well. Might give it a try myself.”

  Raleigh looked worried, and Archie guessed it was for the knees of his trousers when the inevitable crash came. But he wished Archie best of luck and advised him that a cap would serve him better than any of his lovely silk tall hats.

  Archie thanked him, then packed up the maps and notes he’d made and sped off. He’d ridden the glossy black bicycle on several occasions previously, but the machine still felt odd to him in comparison to the alert, responsive qualities of his favorite horses. However, the great advantage of the bicycle was its growing popularity with the fleets of clerks, messenger boys, and the multitude of natural, middleclass folk who now regularly escaped the city for jaunts in the green hills of the countryside.

  The bicycle required no stabling and drew little attention to Archie as he pedaled through the streets with his haversack across his back and his cap pulled low.

  Ten other bicycles already leaned up against the back of the Briar Hotel when he arrived—property of both the staff and guests. Archie drew his alongside the rest. Ahead of him, the back door of the hotel swung open. A burly man dressed in a too-small plaid sack suit bustled out. His face was ruddy and his mustache waxed to the point of gleaming. Graying hair showed from beneath his yellow straw hat, and the buttons of his mustard waistcoat strained against both the muscular bulk of his chest and the softer volume of his potbelly. He carried a red paperboard briefcase emblazoned with bright orange images of musical instruments.

  An aging boxer turned music-sheet salesman. Archie had seen dozens of his type throughout the city. It struck him as interesting that a man’s appearance could convey so much about his character and calling in an instant. But then Archie stilled and looked again at the fellow.

  Behind the thick blue lenses of a pair of tinted spectacles, Archie recognized Nimble’s amused gaze. Archie gaped at him, and Nimble grinned in response.

  “A week early, my bantling, but not a moment too soon!” Nimble walked to him and clapped him on the back. Up close, Nimble’s Prodigal nature was obvious; he hadn’t attempted to hide his black fingernails with bleach or gloves, but that only made the disguise seem all the more authentic. Here was an aging, sweat-stained Prodigal tough, trying a little too hard to make a new life for himself aboveground in a city of natural men. Archie wondered if Nimble hadn’t employed a bit of conjury to perfectly capture the balance of worn-down strength and garish bravado.

  “Couldn’t keep away, old boot.” Strange how simply standing near Nimble, even in this disguise, lifted Archie’s spirits. “I recalled your fondness for maps and other intelligence, and thought you might want to take a gander at what I’ve sussed out about the club so far.”

  “Got in already, then? I shoulda known. No one can turn you away when you stoke up the charm.” Nimble flashed him a wolfish grin, and Archie laughed at the idea of him charming his way into any private club. His access had everything to do with his family title and nothing at all to do with his character as a man. They both knew that.

  “I’d love to look it over and have a chin-wag after that. But I’m working on something myself just now….” Nimble paused, cocking his head to study Archie, from his dusty trousers to his jaunty cap. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to….” Nimble scowled and shook his head.

  “I’d certainly be happy to hear out the rest of the sentence, if nothing else, old boot,” Archie prompted.

  “Well, all this last week I’ve been beating rugs to see what dirt shakes out. Mostly in the guise of this hymn hawker. But the next fellow I want to talk to already knows me. And we didn’t part on the best of terms, to put it politely.”

  “Oh, yes?” Archie asked.

  “Yeah. Doug ‘the Dog’ Beelze.”

  “Husband of the missing Nancy Beelze?”

  “The very one. Once upon a time, him and me got into a tussle over his failure to pay a lady friend of mine for services rendered. I took twice the payment off him, as well as couple of his teeth.” Nimble grimaced. “So even if he’s gotten over that, he’s not likely to open up to me about his missing wife. But you, on the other hand…. Well, you’ve got an honest face and that trick of blushing like a choirboy, which seems to make folks want to tell you all.”

  “Ah, I see.” Archie considered the proposition. “I suppose the worst that can happen is that I get nothing from him. All right, I’ll give it a go. Any suggestions of an explanation to offer for my interest in Nancy? Or shall I just knock on his door, blush, and see how that turns out?”

  Nimble laughed. “Take my hat and case. You claim that you’ve come to deliver the sheet music that his wife had ordered. When—if—he tells you she ain’t around anymore, you ask for her new address and such like. Then you offer to leave the hymns with him. If you can, get inside the house and look around to see if there’s any sign of her in the place.”

  “You think he might be hiding her? Or holding her prisoner?” Archie asked.

  “No. I’m pretty certain that she’s gone, just like the rest of them. But I’m very curious about what all may have gone with her.” Nimble handed Archie the paperboard briefcase, then proffered his straw hat. In return Archie handed off his cap and haversack.

  The bicycle that Nimble employed to commute across the city turned out to be a rebuilt old boneshaker that probably weighed as much as a cart pony. But it held Nimble’s weight, and once he got going, Archie was at pains to keep up with his momentum. They panted and teased each other as they pumped their way up hills, then whooped and laughed as they sped down. They reached the run-down edge of the Theater District, where Doug “the Dog” Beelze resided, just after ten in the morning. They agreed to meet back up at the Fatted Cat chophouse after Archie called on the man.

  “Try to keep him distracted and chatting for fifteen or twenty minutes, if you can.” Nimble took out his pocket watch and studied it briefly. “Yeah, twenty minutes will give me more than enough time, I imagine.”

  “Time for what, dare I ask?” Archie inquired.

  “I got a little lark that’ll let me in to the second story of the house. I’d rather Doug not come up while I’m having a rummage through his dresser and wardrobe.”

  “In broad daylight?” Archie dropped his voice.

  “He’s less likely to be upstairs in the bedroom then.”

  “But won’t his neighbors—” Archie began.

  “Nah. Who do you think is letting me climb across their balcony? Nice woman, actually, very fond of cats and liked Nancy. She’s worried Doug’s done something to her.” Nimble checked his pocket watch again. “And speaking of, I better go. Don’t fret, Archie. Worse comes to worst, I’ll turn myself into a pretty little butterfly and flutter out the window.”

  With that he left Archie to cycle the rest of the block to a gray row of densely packed two-story houses. Archie leaned his bicycle against the side of the wooden steps and strolled up. His heart pounded in his chest as he knocked on the weathered door. No response came, and after a few moments, Archie wondered if Doug was out of the house. All these props and worry for nothing. Though it would make matters much easier for Nimble.

  He supposed he ought to hang around and keep watch in case Doug came home.

  But then he heard the faint squeal and creak of someone descending a staircase. A tall, gaunt man with stringy brown hair and a sickly pale complexion pulled the door open. He wore a nightshirt and sported an ugly black eye, as well as a scabbed gash across his forehead. Archie recalled Thom mentioning Inquisitors beating Doug—though the two missing upper teeth had probably been Nimble’s doing years before.

  An air of sweat, alcohol, and old eggs rolled from the interior of the dark house like a sour breath.

  “I ain’t buying nothing,” Doug told him in a forlorn tone.


  “As luck would have it, good sir, I’m not selling anything.” Archie offered him a wide smile that seemed suitable for a salesman.

  Doug leaned on his doorframe and stared at Archie in a sort of dazed manner that made Archie wonder if he was drunk.

  “I’m delivering sheet music that’s already been paid for.”

  Confusion slowly spread across Doug’s bruised face.

  “By a Mrs. Nancy Beelze,” Archie added.

  “Nancy….” And all at once, Doug appeared convulsed with sorrow. His lower lip trembled like it was about to boil over, and tears welled up in his eyes. Despite knowing the man was no friend to Nimble and remembering Thom calling him a beast, Archie felt a stab of sympathy for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Archie said. “I didn’t mean to….”

  Doug didn’t seem to hear him. He simply hung on the door, weeping for several minutes. At last, when he appeared to regain a little control of himself, Archie proffered him a handkerchief. Doug wiped his face.

  “What… what music did she buy?” he asked. His words quaked as he tried to suppress another sob.

  “Well… why don’t I come in and show you?” Archie suggested. Maybe he could buy Nimble some time by playing or singing some of the music. Perhaps that would offer Doug some comfort in his grief. Archie possessed a passable voice, and if Doug owned a piano, he could perform on that quite easily.

  Doug nodded and stepped back to allow Archie inside the narrow, dark drawing room. No fire burned in the hearth, and the only source of light came from the few shafts of sunlight that shot in between the dusty curtains of the front window. Craning his head slightly, Archie made out the foot of a staircase far back and what must have been a tiny kitchen just beyond that. Definitely no piano. In fact, no real sign of any artistic, literary, or musical interests at all.

  As Archie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed the shadows that he’d first taken for knickknacks, gimcrack, and vases were in fact assorted stacks of dirty and broken dishes. The single picture on the mantle was cracked, and there was a notable space where Archie guessed another framed image must have once stood.

  There was only one chair in the room. It occupied the space between a cluttered sideboard table and the cold hearth. Doug dropped down into the chair and picked a whiskey bottle up off the sideboard. Light from the window cast his face in silhouette as he kicked a spindly footstool out to Archie.

  “As you can see….” Archie opened the paperboard briefcase and peered in at the sheaves of sheet music. “Mrs. Beelze—your wife, I presume…?”

  Doug nodded.

  “She ordered a number of very lovely hymns and a few popular songs—”

  “You probably think it’s funny,” Doug stated.

  “I beg your pardon?” Archie asked.

  “That little bitch running off and leaving me with a bunch of church songs,” Doug grumbled. The accusation seemed to come from nowhere.

  “No. I don’t think it’s funny at—”

  “She would have!” Doug took another swig from his bottle. “Bet she’s laughing her tits off right now.”

  “I… I’m sorry, but I was under the impression from your… response at the door, that she’d passed away.” Archie wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard the faintest creak from the floorboards overhead. Was Nimble up there already? If so, Archie needed to keep Doug distracted and talking, even if he didn’t like the turn of the fellow’s temper. “She’s not dead?”

  “Dead? I wish to God she were!” Doug snorted. “The pinchcock’s made a laughingstock of me. Took everything and ran off to get frigged up one end and out the other by every member of some dandy’s club.”

  Archie struggled to think of a response, but fortunately Doug didn’t seem to need encouragement.

  “Getting it from just one natural man is never enough for Proddie quims. Had to have ’em by the dozen, didn’t she? Liked it real rough too. She’d come home covered in bruises some nights. Hope they give her all the rough she can take and more.” Doug paused to drink from his bottle.

  Archie resisted the urge to question Doug. Hadn’t he noticed that the bruises on his wife were from fights? Didn’t it occur to him that something might have happened to her, or did he have reason to suspect that she’d actually left him?

  Doug lowered the whiskey bottle, almost dropped it on the floor, but then shuddered and pulled it back to his chest. “They better put her in the river when they’re done with her. ’Cause if I find her alive….” He shook his head. “Pigs won’t have her after I’m done with her. That’s a husband’s right.” Doug’s voice began to quaver again. “The whore took my medicine and poured it down the sink!”

  “Your medicine?” Even as he asked, Archie realized he ought to have guessed from the man’s sallow complexion and gaunt frame, or from his abrupt swings of mood: ophorium.

  “I got pain, like you couldn’t understand.” Doug snuffled into Archie’s handkerchief, and Archie guessed that he hadn’t been weeping for his lost wife earlier, but for the drug she’d deprived him of.

  “I was injured in the war.” Doug sniffed.

  Archie nodded. So many of them had been, and not always in way that other people could see or understand. It had spawned an epidemic of ophorium addicts, drunks, and thugs. Archie supposed Doug might count as all three. God knew, it wasn’t easy to come back from war and not bring any of the horror along with you.

  “That sheet music,” Doug said. “You suppose it’s worth much?”

  “Well, the print quality is rather nice.” Archie really had no idea but did his best to stall for a little more time. “Hymns aren’t in the highest demand since most people already know them, but you might be able to sell the four music hall songs—”

  “What’ll you give me for them?” Doug demanded.

  “I’m hardly an ideal buyer,” Archie replied. He took a step back to ensure he was well clear of Doug’s long reach. “Being a hymn hawker myself, I already have first pick of all I could possibly use.”

  “I fought in the war. Wasn’t for men like me, soft little boys like you would be on your knees for them Nornian sods.” Doug surged up to his feet, with the whiskey bottle still gripped in his hand. “You’ve had it easy—I can tell just looking at you! A pretty little boy who goes around chatting up men’s wives and selling them songs!”

  “Sir, I can assure you—”

  “I know your type! Half the women in the city giving you free trips up cock lane, as well as their husbands’ money. You here laughing up your sleeve at a man like me.”

  “I’m not laughing at anyone,” Archie replied, but Doug wasn’t listening.

  “Those ain’t cheap rags on your back. Bet they was bought with other men’s money.” Doug stepped closer. And out of the corner of his eye, Archie thought he glimpsed a shadow moving slowly down the staircase.

  The last thing he wanted was for Nimble to get dragged into this—whatever this was about to become.

  “Bet my wife liked you plenty! Gave you money she wouldn’t spare for me!” Doug swayed so close that Archie could smell the stale odor of his breath. He glowered at Archie, lips quivering. His hand shook as he raised his whiskey bottle like a club. “You pampered boys owe men like me everything! Now you’re gonna pay up, or I’ll shove this bottle so far up your—”

  Archie slammed his right fist into Doug’s gut and then hooked his jaw with a fast left.

  Doug fell back. The whiskey bottle bounced across the floor and spilled the last of its contents into the dark hearth.

  Archie glanced quickly to the stairs. If Nimble had been there, he was gone now.

  Doug moaned from where he lay sprawled on the floor. “You dirty little shit.” His voice broke in another self-pitying sob. “I fought in the war. I was out there—”

  “So was I!” Archie snapped. “And so were thousands of other people, and a lot of them never came back. You and me were the lucky ones. We get to live our lives. So if you’re going to wa
llow and weep for anyone, it shouldn’t be yourself.”

  Archie hurled the sheets of hymns down on the floor and left Doug whimpering and moaning to himself.

  “REMIND ME never to get into a punch-up with you, Archie,” Nimble commented. “Your knuckles all right?”

  “Not too bad.” His left fist was a little red and sore, but nothing felt broken. His hand certainly didn’t give him any trouble as he cut his meat.

  All around them, boisterous groups of actors, playwrights, musicians, and costumers filled tall box seats and crowded around narrow tables. Voices boomed, as players—many dressed in costumes and makeup—ran their lines and waiters shouted orders into the steaming back room of the kitchen. The air sizzled and clanged with the sounds and scents of beef and onions searing in hot pans.

  Their waiter had recognized Nimble, not on sight but by the sound of his rough voice. He knew Nimble as a character actor who regularly ascended from Hells Below to search for roles. He and Nimble took a moment to discuss the padding Nimble had used to fill out the potbelly under his yellow waistcoat.

  That briefly drew the attention of an actor seated at the table to the left of them. The young man wore a fabulous scarlet gown and a towering red wig, and sported a rather convincing bust; he offered Nimble an approving nod. Then he returned his attention to trading fantastically comical dialogue with the two handsome brunette girls opposite him.

  The men on the other side of Archie and Nimble appeared even less interested in them. The paunchy middle-aged fellows drained pints of ale and scribbled on what little empty space remained of the many manuscript pages that they passed back and forth between them.

  Once the waiter departed, Archie went ahead and described the week he’d spent at the Dee Club. Nimble listened, and every once in a while, asked a question or penciled a note onto the pages that Archie had given him. After Archie had said his fill and their food had been served, Nimble leafed through the sheets of paper.

  “You say the building used to belong to a smuggler?” Nimble studied Archie’s map with the intent expression of a man plotting a prison break.