Hainey didn’t answer because further discussion might’ve made him look paranoid, or weak. Simeon came from another place with its own set of problems, to be sure; but he wouldn’t have understood, maybe—how nothing on earth summoned a mob with a noose or a spray of bullets quite like a lady with an accent, and a problem with the way she’s been looked at.
Even a look, misinterpreted or even imagined.
And it had been decades since Croggon Beauregard Hainey had been a young man in a prison, accused of incorrect things and condemned to die; but that didn’t make the memory of it any easier to ignore or erase. So yes, all insistence to the contrary—and with the Rattler, and his men, and a full complement of guns stashed across his formidable body—he was more than a little concerned about a Southern woman with something to prove.
At that moment, a shy head ducked around the corner where Crutchfield stood on a stoop and conducted business. It was the same boy Hainey had threatened the night before, and he looked no less threatened to be standing in front of the captain once again.
“Sir?” he said, stopping both men.
Hainey snapped out of his reverie enough to ask, “What is it?”
“Sir, you have a telegram. It’s from Tacoma.”
The captain took the telegram, read it once, then read it again, and then he declared, “Well I’ll be damned.”
“What’s it say?” Simeon asked, even as he scanned it over Hainey’s shoulder. Before the captain could answer, Simeon had a new question. “What the hell does that mean? That’s about the strangest message I ever heard of. Do you know what it’s all about?”
FREE CROW CARRIES DAMNABLE MADAM CORPSE STOP WORD IN THE CLOUDS SAYS OSSIAN STEEN REQUIRES JEWELRY FOR WEAPON STOP SANATORIUM IS COVER FOR WEAPONS PLANT NO FURTHER WORD TO BE HAD STOP YOU OWE ME ONE STOP AC
Hainey’s scarred face split into a smile. “Cly, you bastard. All right, I owe you one.”
“Cly? The captain?”
“That’s his initials there at the end. He’s the one who sent it,” he confirmed.
Simeon shook his head and said, “But what’s he’s talking about?”
And the captain replied, “I don’t know who this Steen fellow is, but the rest of it’s given me something to think about, sure enough.”
“Can you think and steal a ship at the same time?” the first mate asked.
“I could knit a sweater and steal a ship at the same time, and don’t you josh me about it. Come on. Let’s grab the coach, get the Rattler ready, and see what Lamar’s been up to. We’ve got a Valkyrie to ride.”
6
She arrived at Jefferson City in the near-light hours of the morning; but since she’d stolen most of a night’s sleep inside the Cherokee Rose, she grabbed an early breakfast of oatmeal and toast—and then, when the hour was more reasonable, she called upon Algernon Rice.
According to the helpful folder of paperwork Maria carried, Mr. Rice could be found in an office at the center of town, half a dozen blocks from the city’s passenger docks. In the heart of the city the streets were bumpy with bricks and the buildings were built three, sometimes four stories tall with tasteful trim components and neatly lettered advertisements. Groceries were nestled against law offices and apothecaries, and a veterinarian’s facility was planted between a carriage-house and a billiards hall.
And at the street corner named in her folder, she found a small office with a white painted sign that declared in black lettering, “Mr. Algernon T. Rice, Private Investigator, Pinkerton National Detective Agency (Jefferson City Branch).”
On the other side of the door she found an empty receptionist’s desk; and beyond that desk in a secondary room, she located Mr. Rice.
“Please pardon the receptionist,” he said. “We don’t actually have one right now. But won’t you come inside, and have a seat? I understand this is your first outing as a Pinkerton operative.”
“Yes, that’s right,” she told him, and when he stood to greet her she allowed him to take her hand before she positioned herself delicately on the edge of the high-backed chair that faced his desk.
Algernon Rice was a slender, pale man who looked quite villainous except for the jaunty orange handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. His wide, narrow, precisely curled and waxed mustache was so black it looked blue in the light; and beneath the rim of his matching bowler hat, his sideburns were likewise dark. Except for the orange triangle, every visible article of his clothing was also funereal in design and color.
But his voice was cultured and polite, and he conducted himself in a gentlemanly fashion, so Maria opted to assume the best and proceed accordingly.
She said, “I’ve just arrived from Chicago and I understand I must now make my way to St. Louis. Your name was presented as a contact, and I hope this means that you can help me arrange a coach or a carriage, or possibly a train.”
“Yes and no—which is to say, I won’t give you anything horse-powered or rail-running, but I can definitely see you to your destination. However, there’s been a change of plans. I received a telegram first thing this morning from a contact in Kansas City.”
“Kansas City? Isn’t that west of here?”
“Yes, by a hundred and fifty miles,” he confirmed. “It would seem that your quarry has slowed, and that the nefarious captain is stranded. And I’m afraid that’s the good news.”
She furrowed her brow and said, “I beg your pardon?”
To which he replied, “We have an informant of sorts—an affiliate, we should say instead. Frankly, it’d be a disservice to call him anything more than a degenerate drunk, but he likes to make himself useful.”
“To Pinkerton?”
“To anyone with a wad of cash. Crutchfield’s not terribly discriminate, but he’s usually on top of things so I fear we’re forced to trust him. And the bad news is, Croggon Hainey knows you’re coming. We would’ve preferred to keep a lid on that, but there’s nothing to be done about it now except slip in faster than he expects to meet you.”
She shook her head slowly and asked, “But how would he know I’m coming?”
“It’s as I said, our informant will talk to anyone with the cash to buy his time, and he has ears bigger than wagon wheels. He won’t admit that he’s the reason word is getting around, but he doesn’t have to.” He sighed, and folded his hands on the desk. “Ma’am, I’m bound to honor my obligations to the Chicago office, you understand, but I also feel obligated to voice a bit of objection to this matter. I think it’s an unkind, untoward thing to send a lady after a criminal like Hainey—”
Maria cut him off with a delicate sweep of her hand, saying, “Mr. Rice, I appreciate your concern but I assure you, it’s unnecessary. I’ve received plenty of warnings, tongue-waggings, and outright prohibitions since agreeing to work for Mr. Pinkerton, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to skip the one you’re preparing to deliver and get right to work. So if you’re not planning to take me to Kansas City by horse, buggy, or rail, what precisely does that leave—except for another dirigible?”
He smiled widely, spreading his thin lips and showing no sign of teeth. “As you wish. And the transportation in question is…shall we say…dirigible-like. It’s an experimental craft, barely large enough to support two passengers, I won’t lie to you there. It’ll be cramped, but the trip will be fairly brief.”
“To cover one hundred and fifty miles?”
“Oh yes. If we leave now, we’ll be able to catch a late lunch in Kansas City, if you’re so inclined. Though…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to presume…”
She told him, “You can presume anything you like if you can get me to Kansas City by lunchtime.” She rose from her chair, collected her large and small bags, and stood prepared to leave until he likewise stood.
“I can hardly argue with that. We might have a bit of a trick getting your luggage aboard, but we’ll see what we can manage. This way,” he said, opening his arm and letting her lead the way around the corner, into a hallway where a tall set of narrow stairs led up to another floor.
“Up…upstairs?”
“That’s right. The Flying Fish is upstairs, on the roof. She’s a little too small to sit comfortably at the passenger docks; if I left her there, I would’ve simply met you at the gate rather than compelling you to find your way to my office. But I’ve constructed a landing pad of sorts, and I keep her lashed to the building where she’s available at a moment’s notice.”
He reached out to take Maria’s heavier bag, and she allowed him to tote it as she led the way up the steps. She asked, “Is that typically necessary? To have a small airship at the ready?”
“Necessary?” He shrugged. “I couldn’t swear to its absolute essentialness, but I can tell you that it’s mighty convenient. Like now, for example. If I didn’t have a machine like the Fish, then I’d be forced to assign you to a train, or possibly bribe your way onto a cargo dirigible heading further west. There aren’t any passenger trips between here and Kansas City, you understand.”
“I was unaware of that,” she said, reaching the top of the stairs and turning on the landing to scale the next flight.
“Yes, well. We may be the capital, but we’re by no means the biggest urban area within the state. Or within the region, heaven knows,” he added as an afterthought.
Maria paused, looked back at him, and he urged her onward. “It’s only the next flight up. Here,” he said. At the top of the next flight there was a trap door in the ceiling. Algernon Rice gave the latch a tug and a shove, and a rolling stairway extended, sliding down to meet the floor.
He offered Maria his hand and she took it as a matter of politeness and familiarity, not because she particularly needed the assistance in climbing the stairs without a rail. But she’d learned the long way that it was easier to let men feel useful, so she rested her fingers atop his until she had cleared the portal and stood upon the roof—next to an elaborate little machine that must have been the Flying Fish.
