by Susan Wiggs
After finishing her conversation, she walked toward him with brisk purpose, her lovely face uncharacteristically taut and pale.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, then remembered that he was irritated with her for giving back the jewels. He lowered his brow in a scowl.
“Indeed there is, and we must do something about it.”
“So tell me.”
She glanced furtively toward the Lind, now a hive of steady activity as businessmen and officials of the government and military moved in. Sensing her need for confidentiality, he led her toward Madison, where they could take the horse car back to the rail yard. As soon as they were alone on the street, she whirled to face him.
“Just what sort of man is this Vincent Costello?” she demanded. “I want to know everything.”
Dylan chuckled. “How long do you have?”
“What do you mean?”
“Vince is a complicated fellow. Hard to explain in a few words.”
“Then try. It’s important.”
“He’s not an evil man. Not a man who commits senseless violence.”
“I asked what he is, not what he isn’t.”
“I would say that Vince Costello is the greatest opportunist in the state. Maybe in the country. If there is a game going on, you’ll always find him at its center. Why do you ask?”
“Because he has already taken advantage of an opportunity,” she said. “He has been stealing from the Catholic Relief Fund.”
Dylan was not the least bit surprised, though Costello’s swiftness impressed even him. He was most startled by the fact that Kathleen had heard about the deal before he had. He grabbed her elbow. “Tell me what you know.”
“Ha.” She pulled her arm away. “You’re probably in league with him.”
“All right. Then don’t tell me.”
“I won’t. I shall tell the police.”
The mention of police never failed to put him on his guard. But maybe he knew Kathleen a little better than he thought. He said, “Of course, you must do as you think right. But you’ll have to live with the consequences.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Dear, the police have all they can do sorting out the mess Chicago has become and keeping the peace. The mayor’s declared marshal law under General Sheridan. I doubt they would have the time to spare for a petty thief.”
“His theft is not so petty,” she said.
“But it’s not a matter of life and death. Besides, if Vince is caught stealing something, he’s smart enough to buy his way out of trouble.”
“Even if it’s a huge amount of money from the fund meant for the homeless of Chicago?”
They came to a large, smoldering ditch, and he lifted her over the gap, his hands spanning her rib cage. Her dress belled out as he swung her around. With an effort, he concentrated on her words. “How huge?”
She was quiet for a time. Then she stepped back and walked carefully over the littered roadway. They came to an intersection where the horse car waited. Dylan took out two five-cent pieces for the fare.
A number of people milled around, endlessly discussing the fire. A young couple were engaged in an argument. Dylan wouldn’t have noticed except that the woman was visibly pregnant. They lacked the fare for both of them, and the husband was trying to convince her that she should beg a free ride, and he would walk. Dylan tossed both nickels to the man, who looked startled, then thanked him profusely.
Uncomfortable with the gratitude, he simply took Kathleen’s hand and walked away.
“That was good of you,” she commented.
He could not recall the last time someone had called him good. He did not like the sound of it, for it didn’t seem to fit him. “At least now we can continue the conversation,” he said.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“You asked how much he had stolen.”
Dylan was staggered by the amount. “How? And how do you know he did it?”
“Barry Lynch told me.”
Dylan recalled the lanky young man, and then remembered where he had seen him before. In the rail yard, with Faith amid the wounded.
“He is working as a clerk for the church fund. Mr. Costello is skimming the cream off all the relief monies that come in before sending the balance on to the church auditor.”
Dylan gave a low whistle. It was audacious, but typical of Costello. He moved fast, and he didn’t worry about such minor details as eternal damnation.
“Now do you understand why we must alert the authorities?”
“Kathleen, he is one of the authorities.”
“We can’t just let him get away with it.”
Dylan scarcely heard for his mind had already galloped ahead. The task was obvious. He had to separate the mark from his money. With Vincent Costello, that was not so simple. He knew the ways of a grifter, and he could spot a false enterprise with one eye shut. Still, if he could be made to believe he was the one getting the benefit of a swindle, then he might take the bait.
Suppressing his excitement, Dylan asked, “Do you trust me?”
“No,” she said flatly.
He tried another tack. “Would you help me recover the money from Costello?”
“Only if we put it back where it belongs. It’s meant for the church.”
He would work on that later. For now, it was easier to agree. “What we have to do,” he said, “is to convince Costello to spend his ill-gotten gains—”
“On us,” she said, flashing him a grin. “Don’t look so surprised, boyo. I know how you think.” Her eyes sparkled brighter than the emeralds she had so foolishly given up. “This fits in perfectly with my idea—”
“Which you still haven’t told me.”
She marched ahead, haughty as a queen. “I’ve been telling you all along. You just haven’t been listening.” As they approached the rail yard, she said, “You’re about to learn an honest trade, Dylan Kennedy. So pay attention.”
FIFTEEN
Dylan paced up and down in the train car while Kathleen tracked his progress with a steady gaze. The Pullman had been moved to an area by the lake known as the boneyard, where derelict or damaged cars were stored. Concerned that Cornelius King would send for his train car before Dylan was ready to give it up, he had decided to move it to a hidden location. Brandishing counterfeit work orders, he had commandeered a crew for the job.
“How is it that you’re so familiar with the Chicago Board of Trade, of all things?” he asked.
“I worked for the daughter of Arthur Sinclair,” Kathleen said, settling herself on the fringed settee by the window. “Information about the grain trade ran like gossip through that household.”
“Why?”
“Because he started out a poor man and made himself richer than God with his trades.”
Dylan stopped pacing. “Now I’m listening.”
She toyed with a tasseled shade pull. “All right. Picture this. Years ago, farmers would bring their grain to the city, but there was no central place to sell it. Just like the muleteer we saw yesterday. The poor sods had to walk up and down the waterfront looking for the best price for their grain. If there was too much for sale, they wound up dumping their harvest into Lake Michigan.”
“Why? Surely they could get something for the grain.”
“If the price was too low, it wasn’t worth the cost of selling it. Before the Board of Trade existed, a farmer might simply decide to cut his losses and go home. Sometimes groups of them would band together and create a shortage by dumping grain. That would drive up the price. Do you follow me?”
“So far.”
“Good. Now, they created a Board of Trade as a centralized grain market. Members buy forward or to-arrive contracts for grain yet to be shipped. That sort of contract is still used, though it’s frowned upon.”
She was losing him already, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He simply wasn’t accustomed to serious business with a wo
man. “Does Mr. Sinclair require all his domestics to study grain commerce?” he asked.
“Of course not. I found it…of interest to me.” She caught his skeptical expression and said, “It’s not as if I woke up one morning and said, ‘Right. Today I shall learn commerce.’ But it’s something I’ve always had a knack for. My mother practiced it on the smallest of scales. She would sell tomorrow’s milk at today’s prices, and have the use of the money until she had to actually make her delivery.”
“So people paid her before they received the milk?”
“Indeed they did. It was a bond of trust. They got a better price by paying in advance, and my mother had a guaranteed sale. It’s the same with the farmers and their grain.”
“You sure as hell must’ve spent a lot of time eavesdropping,” he observed.
She dropped the tassel and studied her reflection in the picture window. “A servant is invisible most of the time. Didn’t you know that?”
She was right, of course. There was no outright cruelty or intentional slight, but people of privilege tended to regard servants as no more important than a good horse or fine piece of furniture. Ladies and gentlemen who wouldn’t dream of revealing themselves to their peers revealed their most intimate secrets in front of the servants.
He studied her profile and the way the light picked out red-gold strands in her hair, wondering how anyone could ever ignore her.
“You were a lady’s maid,” he reminded her. “Don’t tell me you learned all this from gossiping women?”
She sniffed. “You would be surprised to know what women speak of in private. I did spend plenty of time belowstairs with my eyes and ears open. And not just when it came to matters of business.”
He tried to picture her in that life, a domestic with a scrubbed face and a white apron, her glorious hair stuffed under a mobcap. Christ, what a waste.
“You probably eavesdropped out of sheer boredom,” he said.
Wistfulness softened her face for a moment, and she rested her elbow on the tabletop, setting her chin in the cradle of her hand. “I was never bored. Ever.”
Then it struck him. Like it or not, he was coming to know this woman. He was learning what made her happy or sad or excited or frustrated. And he knew why her life as a maid had not bored her. Because it had given her a glimpse into a world she desperately wanted to be a part of.
“You don’t sound like any maid I’ve ever met.”
That drew a brief smile from her. “I suppose I was different because I was so curious about everything. I learned to speak French and I practiced it with Miss Deborah, because she was a reluctant scholar. She worked better with me helping her, quizzing her. I learned dancing because she preferred me as a partner over the loudmouthed, clumsy boys the dancing master paired her with. It was she who insisted I accompany her to finishing school. So I suppose, just by being there, I had the same education as Miss Deborah. But without the name and the fortune, it meant nothing.”
He sat beside her on the couch, strangely taken by the unfamiliar process of getting to know someone. “Until the night we met.”
She winced and shifted away from him. “That was supposed to be a harmless masquerade. I had no idea things would turn out the way they did.”
He grinned reassuringly. “You still don’t know how things will turn out. That’s what makes life so damned interesting.”
“Perhaps I don’t need for it to be so interesting.”
“Then what, Kathleen?” He brushed at a lock of her hair that had strayed from its plait. “What do you need life to be?”
“I don’t know anymore,” she said. “I used to think it would be so fine to be rich and to have lovely things—”
“Trust me, it is.”
“No, I was wrong. In the fire, I saw people who lost everything yet they were content because they and their loved ones survived. I’ve begun to think that true happiness is made up of something altogether different.”
He grinned. “But you’ve always wanted to be rich, haven’t you?”
She flushed, and he knew he had hit his mark.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Kathleen.”
She stared down at the table. “I’d be far better off learning to be content with my lot.”
He touched her chin, bringing her gaze back to his. “You studied finance instead. You learned to speak French and to dance a waltz. It’s no sin.”
Still blushing furiously, she pulled away from his touch. “We were speaking of the grain trade,” she reminded him. “You keep distracting me.”
“You’re a lot more interesting than grain.”
“Then you haven’t been listening. Don’t you find it fascinating that a person can buy the future?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been trying to explain it to you, Dylan.” She turned toward him, eschewing a ladylike posture and tucking one leg under her. She became bright-eyed, animated. “You can buy the future. You can buy something that doesn’t even exist, and then turn around and sell it at a profit.”
“I wonder why I have never tried it, then. It’s a better dodge than I’ve ever pulled.”
She grinned, and it warmed him to his toes. “I knew you’d like it.”
“I can’t believe it’s legal. It sounds like cheating.”
“Then you’ll be very good at it.” Rummaging in a drawer, she found a small tablet of paper and a pencil stub, then returned to the sofa and started making a list. “Now, in order to make a trade, you have to be a member of the Board.”
“Who’s to say I am not?” He spread his arms grandly. “Hell, who’s to say you’re not, or Bull Waxman or Father Michael? All the records burned.”
“Oh, my,” she said, regarding him in a way that reminded him of the first time he had made love to her. “You’re catching on fast.”
“So I’m a member,” he said, going along with it. “Then what?”
“I’m guessing that no one else knows about the grain shipment on the barge Elyssa. We could use that knowledge to our advantage.”
Dylan felt a stirring that was more than interest. It had a vaguely sexual appeal. He really was feeling strange. He was getting excited about finance.
“As far as Mr. Costello or anyone else knows, there is bound to be a terrible shortage of grain for wheat flour.”
“And when something’s in short supply, you buy all you can of it, try to corner the market.”
“Precisely.” She did some figuring on the paper. “Then, when the grain shows up in great abundance, the price will drop dramatically. Those who bought it at a high rate will lose out.”
“While those who sold high are the winners.”
She nodded vigorously, more curls escaping her braid. “We simply have to get Mr. Costello to take the bait and invest at a high price.”
“He’s too smart to take anyone’s bait,” Dylan pointed out.
“Don’t underestimate yourself, boyo. You have a profound understanding of greedy, dishonest men. I have a profound understanding of the grain trade. Together we should be able to pull off a…big touch.”
Damn. She was a quick study. “I like it when you talk like that,” he said with a wink.
“I have been around you entirely too much.”
“It won’t be for very much longer. As soon as the shipment arrives, we can go our separate ways.”
She got up and walked away so quickly that he couldn’t judge her reaction. He wasn’t even sure what his own reaction was. He ought to be looking forward to his freedom. Instead, freedom was beginning to feel like a penance, for true freedom meant he answered to no one. Cared for no one. Mattered to no one. That never used to bother him before, but it did now.
He observed Kathleen by the opposite window. She stood wrapped in a shawl against the autumn chill, her arms around her middle as the feeble light of the autumn afternoon limned her features. Standing at the broad window, she resembled the sort of subject a fine artist would want to depict. Bea
utiful, pensive, moody, secretive. Maybe that was the reason she never bored him.
She had an uncanny knack for reading his thoughts, for she turned from the window and set her hands on her hips in a bossy fashion. “Hand me that paper and pencil and then go and find Father Michael and Bull. If we are to recover the stolen money, we have much work to do.”
* * *
Within a week’s time, a huge wooden structure some ninety feet square had been erected at the corner of Washington and Market Streets. Members of the Chicago Board of Trade began to sift through the ashes of their paperwork, trying to recover what records they could. They were not successful, which proved advantageous for Kathleen’s plan. Since no records had survived the fire and communication was faulty at best, chaos and uncertainty governed the market.
Bull and Father Michael sat with them in the train car, where the table was littered with paper. “This,” she said to Dylan, pushing a printed form across to him, “is your membership to the Board. Now you have trading privileges.”
He studied the paper for a moment. “Where did you get this?”
She exchanged a glance with the priest, and both of them flushed. Amateurs at deception, they weren’t comfortable with the plan. Yet Father Michael had been outraged to learn that Costello was stealing from the relief fund, and he was determined to serve the greater good, no matter what.
“Never mind that,” she said briskly. “Now, here’s how a trade works. Give me your hand.”
He held it out, and she took it. Why was it, she wondered, that simply touching his hand filled her with warmth? Impatient with herself, she took his wrist and turned it. “Palm outward signals that you’re selling. Palm inward is for buying.”
“They’re just bits of paper,” Bull said, frowning.
“They represent bushels of grain.”
“What grain?”
“There’s a barge load on the lake. It needs only a tug to bring it into port, and we will see to that.” She took a deep breath. “But we’ll need to buy the contract.”