by Abra SW
“You would like me to clear out the refugees from the park?” Commissioner Guirard asked. “The poor people who have nowhere else to go? At least Central Park—” He stopped. “You went to Central Park?”
Those are the choices his wife gives him? Ginger thought. Start a war over who controls the docks, or terrorize the survivors with nothing to lose? No wonder he looks like he swallowed a centipede!
Mrs. Guirard gazed up at her husband with wide doe eyes. “I’m sorry, darling. I know you don’t like it when I leave home, but I simply couldn’t stand being shut inside that giant house for one more minute! And the city is deadly dull. Once the circus moves on, there will be absolutely nothing to do.”
“My dear,” Commissioner Guirard said, “I’m afraid that at the moment, the city isn’t—isn’t able to match the expectations of a lady of breeding. Society can’t recover until—until certain other matters are dealt with.”
It was the gentlest way that Ginger had ever heard anyone say, Until I’ve hanged the troublemakers, buried the corpses, and fed the survivors.
Mrs. Guirard’s mouth firmed. “I’m aware of the difficulties! I know you don’t think my upbringing suited me for anything practical, but I can be resourceful. I shall simply have to create my own diversions.” She clapped her hands. “I know! We will have a costume ball. And since all the seamstresses claim to be busy sewing such boring clothes, I shall take a dozen of those refugee women and set them to making costumes! I am sure they would be grateful for such an enjoyable occupation. I shall need to find a source of inspiration for them, of course. We can get started tomorrow!”
Ginger couldn’t let that opening pass. He jumped in before Commissioner Guirard could promise that his wife would never need to come up with her own diversions because the circus couldn’t leave after he requisitioned all their horses. Better to volunteer than be conscripted.
“Perhaps you could postpone that, ma’am? I have a different suggestion,” Ginger said.
“Oh?” she asked.
“Oh?” Commissioner Guirard echoed, his tone much darker than his wife’s.
“Yes, ma’am. I would be delighted to offer you a chaperoned, behind-the-curtain visit of our circus. Our performers will answer all your questions.”
She perked up. “All of them?”
Commissioner Guirard winced.
Ginger didn’t, since he had no intention of actually introducing her to any circusfolk. “Absolutely,” he said smoothly.
“That could take a while,” she warned him.
“It would be our pleasure,” Ginger assured her. To Commissioner Guirard, he added, “I can also arrange for your wife’s escort to have a tour of our menagerie and working animals while your wife chats with the ladies of our circus.” He gave him a conspiratorial between-us-men smile. “After all, men of action may find women’s fripperies rather tedious.”
As Ginger had hoped, his suggestion sparked a flicker of avarice in Commissioner Guirard’s eyes. The commissioner wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to have his men take an accurate, unforced inventory of those assets he planned to requisition.
“That would be acceptable,” Commissioner Guirard said, in a measured tone of voice that Ginger diagnosed as an attempt to conceal his anticipation. “If you wish it, my dear?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Marvelous,” Ginger said honestly. “Shall we say tomorrow at an hour past noon?”
Chapter 18
~* * *~
The Price of Chocolate
Ginger, the Whitefaced Clown
New York City
The first gray light of winter’s dawn crept through the streets as Ginger walked into the city. It would take him about an hour to reach Hardy’s Candy Confections, the candy shop favored by Commissioner Guirard’s wife. While he walked, the city came alive around him. Yawning special patrolmen headed home after the night shift, transforming from curfew-enforcing bogeymen into ordinary tired men. Candlelight flickered briefly in the windows of reclaimed houses as their new inhabitants prepared for the day. A scattering of storekeepers opened their doors, lit their lanterns, swept their stoops, and generally faced the new day with a desperate kind of optimism.
When Ginger reached Glorious Green Grocery, a long line snaked away from it even though the grocer hadn’t opened yet. Deborah Rowan was among the sleepy-eyed men and women who waited with ration cards in hand.
Ginger stopped and tapped her shoulder. “Deb.”
She jumped, surprise widening her eyes and bringing her fully alert. “You!” she said. “The man from the circus!”
He took it as a compliment that his erstwhile guide to the city couldn’t remember his name. “Yes. How long will this,” he jerked his chin at the line, “take?”
“Grocer opens in less than an hour. I’ll be done in two, back hauling stone at the bridge in three. Why? Did you get a ration card? If you’re planning on getting food, you won’t find a better time for it. Lines are worse later in the day.”
“I’m not trying to steal a place in line,” Ginger assured her, “just passing by. I saw you and wondered if you’d deliver a message for me. You can buy groceries first; the message will wait two hours, though not much longer.”
“Payment?”
“Tell them to give you a little something from the sailors’ trade.”
She cocked her head. “Them? Sailors? Where do you want this message to go?”
“Do you know where the old Manhattan Zoo was?”
“Sure. Been a long time since I thought of it, though. Not sure what’s there now.”
“With any luck, the new Manhattan Zoo. And I make my own luck.”
She snorted a laugh. “What’s the message?”
“Half past one, today. They’ll know what I mean.”
“I reckon nobody ever knows all of what you mean,” Deb said shrewdly, “but I’ll give them your message, sure enough.”
“Appreciate it.” Ginger tipped his hat to her and continued on his walk.
When he saw Hardy’s Candy Confections, Ginger stopped to loiter across the street. He pretended to read a hardware store’s list of rationed goods as he assessed the candy shop. Inside it, a comfortably middle-aged woman bustled around. She swept the floor. She slid trays mounded with colorful candies into a glass display case. She lit the lamps and did not spare the lamp oil. Warm light spilled out onto the gray street. The shop’s gaily striped awning propped up the illusion of happy warmth and comfort.
Workers ignored it as they trudged past, on their way to earn their ration coupons. They kept their heads down, like they hoped trouble wouldn’t see them if they didn’t see it.
As if that would work, Ginger thought. Trouble had found someone here, and not too long ago. Frozen horse manure and less readily identifiable filth coated the street. The dark brownish-red stain left by spilled blood still distinguished itself.
Fortified by this evidence of the wickedness of mankind, Ginger approached Hardy’s Candy Confections. A large poster pinned to the door advertised that it was an “Approved Seller of Non-Rationed Food Items.” As Ginger pushed open the door, a bell jingled. The woman behind the counter looked up with a smile. The long counter stretched along one side of the room. Chalkboards hung on the wall behind the counter. At the back of the store, a curtained doorway led to less public areas of the shop. Dustcloths covered two display cases. The third sparkled in the lamplight, and the candies inside glowed. In the far corner, two chairs sat beside a small table.
“Welcome to Hardy’s Candy Confections,” the woman said. “I am Mrs. Nave, the proprietress.” She gestured to the large chalkboards hanging on the wall behind the counter. “There’s the list of the trade goods I accept, and I’m willing to consider other offers. I’m afraid that right now I have a very limited selection of candies available. Caramels—” she indicated a neat pyramid of wax paper-wrapped squares, “—and sugar drops in ginger, sarsaparilla, cinnamon, lemon, beet, and tea flavors.” She winked conspirator
ially. “If I were you, I’d purchase cinnamon drops and lemon drops while I still have them.”
“Actually, I’m looking for something special,” Ginger began.
She froze. It was only for a fraction of an instant, but Ginger noticed it. “I can also make custom cakes, cookies, or candies, but I’m afraid you must provide any rationed ingredients,” she told him.
“Something more special than that,” Ginger said, just to see what she would do.
She shot him a quick, assessing glance. “You’re not one of Commissioner Guirard’s patrolmen.”
“No, ma’am. Just a traveler passing through.”
She nodded briskly, walked over to the shop windows, and pulled the curtains shut. Then she uncovered one of the unused display cases, revealing a wide assortment of items: silver tea sets, pistols, jewelry, knives, pocket watches, small musical instruments, bullets, music boxes, canned fruit and vegetables, and other small but valuable things.
“Aren’t weapons considered contraband?” Ginger asked.
She tensed. “If that’s not what you want, what are you here for?”
A plain young woman came through the curtained doorway at the back of the store and joined Mrs. Nave behind the counter. She wore an old gray dress. A heavy bandage was wrapped around her head. She kept her right hand hidden in her skirt. “Yes, what are you here for?” the young woman asked, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.
Ginger reached into his coat and pulled out the paper bag of cacao beans he’d taken from the zoo. “I understand that chocolate is nearly impossible to get in New York these days, but I happened to acquire these cacao beans. I was hoping that Mrs. Nave could make some of the chocolates that Commissioner Guirard’s wife favors.”
“That’s all you came for?” the young woman said, speaking normally.
Something about her rang a distant bell. He frowned. “Well, yes.”
“Don’t you recognize my voice, Ginger?”
He didn’t. And then he did. His mouth dropped open.
He knew he was gaping like a yokel, but mastery of his expression had deserted him. “Madame Wershow! You’re alive! I thought …! We all thought …!” Hearing himself, he stopped. He inhaled deeply. He smoothed his expression to calmness. “Report, please. What happened?” He glanced at the candy shop proprietress. “Or perhaps we should wait to discuss this until we’re back with the circus.”
Tonya Wershow laughed and then winced a little, as if it hurt. “Mrs. Nave is our contact here. We can talk in front of her. She’s one of the few people I’m sure didn’t try to kill me, since I was watching her when it happened.” Tonya lifted her hand to reveal the pistol that she’d been hiding in the folds of her skirt. “Whoever it was saw my face. Nobody else in the circus knows what I look like underneath the fortune teller’s veil. I was ready to shoot you if you recognized me.”
Ginger cleared his throat. “Start from the beginning, please.”
“Do you remember when we found the ringmaster’s list of our contacts in different cities? He had other classified documents hidden in his wagon. The skeleton man found them. He decided to keep them. I doubt he’s a player; he just likes secrets. I was passing by the skeleton man’s wagon, and I overheard a man with a British accent interrogating him about these papers. When I tried to see who it was, my foot slipped. The noise alerted them to my presence. I had to flee. I followed protocol: I left the circus and headed toward our nearest contact to report that our mission was compromised by an unknown agent.” She snorted. “What’s left of our mission, anyway. How can we identify threats to our country if our country no longer exists?”
“There are still threats,” Ginger said quietly. “Right now, we have more resources to deal with them than most. Keep going. You fled to New York. What happened next?”
“I found my way to Hardy’s Candy Confections. I was across the street, scouting the shop, when I heard something behind me. I tried to reach my pistol, but—” she sighed, “—I must not have made it. I don’t remember much else. A blur of movement. Pain. Darkness. I woke up here. The pain was overwhelming until Mrs. Nave gave me a spoonful of syrup that took the pain away. Then I was warm and happy and nothing hurt. I was swaddled in feather comforters. The air smelled like caramel. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
Mrs. Nave sniffed. “Perhaps I gave you too strong a dose of poppy syrup. You called me an angel and asked why the clouds you were floating on were full of chicken feathers!”
Tonya chuckled.
“She may look better now,” Mrs. Nave continued, speaking to Ginger, “but this is the first time she’s stood on her own. She was unconscious for a full day, and I’ve had to help her manage the chamber pot. She’s not recovered.”
“No,” Tonya agreed. “And I think I need to sit down now.”
Ginger hurried around the counter to take her arm. He guided her to one of the chairs in the corner. Tonya sat with a sigh of relief. “Who have you reported to?” Ginger asked Mrs. Nave.
Mrs. Nave laughed. “There’s nobody to report to. My nearby contacts are gone. Dead, most likely. I have no way to reach my superiors. I’ll help you however I can, but what you see is what you get. I’m nothing more than a candy shop owner and small-time black marketeer now. At that, I only survive because I had the favor of the commissioner’s wife before everything fell apart.”
“Good tradecraft.”
Mrs. Nave shrugged. “I always tried to cultivate clients who might be useful. I sent them samples to draw them to the shop. If they came, I memorized their names and their birthdays. I always sent them a small present on special days. I asked after their families. I did my best to make them feel special. The wealthy and the powerful, politicians, even the gang leaders or their girls—them I made feel high-class. Worked like a charm.” Mrs. Nave chuckled. “The commissioner’s wife was low on the list. Could have knocked me over with a feather when she turned out to be the most important of the lot!”
“She certainly did. She brought me here, too,” Ginger said. “For my plan to succeed, she must be pleased. Can you make the chocolates now? I’ll wait.”
“If you need them that much,” Mrs. Nave said. “It won’t take more than an hour for me to cook up her favorite recipe. You may—”
“Wait,” Tonya interrupted. “Ginger, this is hardly the time for candy. Didn’t you hear me? There’s a traitor in the circus. We’re cut off from all support. He tried to kill me. He probably did kill the ringmaster, before we docked in Boston. Certainly, survival has been our priority since we saw what the aether storm had done. But if the traitor is willing to kill again, now, we have to stop him! What could be more important than that?”
“Don’t forget the skeleton man. I bet he’s gone missing, too. We can assume this traitor has the papers and either terrorized the skeleton man into running off or killed him. It doesn’t much make a difference which.” Ginger smiled tightly. “As for what could be more important, you do remember that I said we had more resources than most? I’m not the only one who thinks so. The Commissioner of New York wants to requisition our horses and anything else that he might find of use. His charming wife would like to keep us here to entertain her forever. Unless we do something, the circus will be broken apart, and we’ll be trapped. Besides,” Ginger continued, working it out as he spoke, “it should be simple enough to flush out your would-be murderer.”
“How?”
“You said it yourself. He’s the only person in the circus who knows what you look like. He’ll react when he sees you. If he believes you dead, his reaction will be even stronger. But before we save the circus from this traitor, we have to make sure there’s still a circus left to save.”
~ * ~
Ginger, the Whitefaced Clown
Rumsey Port, New York
Ginger smiled as he introduced Mrs. Guirard’s police escort to the wrangler who would show them around. He smiled wide and did not grit his teeth. A professional would not grit his teeth. Had he
not been a professional, he would have been grinding his teeth loudly enough to be heard back in Boston.
Although the officer in charge acted professional enough, the five special patrolmen he was in charge of did not. They were practically licking their lips as they looked around. No doubt they saw this meeting as a reconnaissance before they returned in force to seize whatever took their fancy. The wrangler Ginger had foisted them off on kept looking back over his shoulder as he led them away, as if to ask, “Are you sure you want me to show these yahoos everything? Really?”
Ginger kept smiling. Remember that this is all a grand trick, he told himself. What they see doesn’t matter. What she sees does.
With that in mind, he offered a polite smile to Mrs. Guirard, the she in question. “Welcome, ma’am. I hope to provide you with a delightful afternoon full of surprises!”
“That’s not quite how you put it yesterday,” she observed in a tone as mild as milk.
“Well, you’ve already seen most of what our humble circus has to offer. I thought you might enjoy something more novel.”
“Oh?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. Her eyes were sharper than Ginger would have expected from the featherheaded way she acted.
“In truth, I didn’t bring you here to show you the circus,” Ginger said, carefully doling out the necessary amount of honesty. “I hope to persuade you to my cause.”
She held up her hand to stop him. “I can’t keep my husband from requisitioning your animals. I do not interfere in city business. Consider yourself lucky that you were able to give one last performance.”
“I would never expect a lady such as yourself to interfere in her husband’s business! I have something else in mind.”
“And what is that?”
Rather than answer, Ginger smiled and crooked his elbow for her to slip her hand through. “If you will allow me to surprise you?”