House of Corruption (9 page)

“You saw what that girl did,” Grant said. “She’d would’of done the same to me. With all due respect yourself, you don’t seem the type to face someone who killed two men without fuss. If you plan t’introduce us again, you’d better be sure you can handle her.”

“Of course I can,” Savoy said. “Do not doubt about that.”

Grant slapped the pistol’s grip into Savoy’s palm. “I could’ve slit open those drunks and made up a crazy story to go to the looner. By the time they find your body I’d have your revolver, your thick wallet, and a head start.”

“You could have shot me just now,” Savoy said.

“Sure.”

“I believe you innocent.”

“Why?”

“Because.” With trembling fingers, Savoy replaced the pistol into his holster. “I consider myself an excellent judge of character.”

The coach deposited them before LaCroix Brokerage, where they ascended to Reynard’s office.

Grant remained in the little nook of a lobby while Savoy continued down the hall. The window blinds in Reynard’s office were all open—a rarity—providing a view of the Merchant Exchange. Sidewalks swarmed with suit-and-ties with their briefcases and derbies and coats and confident strides. Reynard sat at his desk with his back to it, his collar loosed, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. A walnut pipe steamed from his mouth, a tin of Hignett’s tobacco on his desk.

“I let myself in,” Savoy said.

“I gathered,” Reynard said, taking a puff.

“I did not know you smoked.”

“I don’t.”

“And that thing in your mouth?”

“It is what men of business do, is it not?” Reynard said. “Starch my collar and join the Rotary Club and talk politics over cigars? Add to the ranks of those rail-steppers on the street...” He thumbed toward the window. “What do you think?”

“Where is your staff?”

“Excellent question. Betty is home with a sniffle, my manager’s decided to take an unscheduled holiday, and my runner’s been murdered. If you could solve my inability to retain reliable employees, I would grant you an immediate position.” Reynard dipped his hand into his vest, removed a folded sheet of paper and tossed it across the room. Savoy snatched it. “You ought to find that amusing.”

Savoy silently read Kiria Carlovec’s letter. The vellum was thick and expensive. He guessed she used a Remington typewriter, based on the shape of each letter. The woman’s signature proved she was Spenserian trained, and his understanding of graphology revealed an emotional susceptibility—the fluctuating middle zone size and baseline of her handwriting revealed she was under some emotional strain. He turned the paper over and brought it close to his face, sniffing, examining the envelope’s many stamps.

“Delivered to my doorstep,” Reynard said. “By a foreign chap.”

“Where did this courier obtain your home address?” Savoy fished in his pocket and removed a business card. “I may have met this courier yesterday. He came by the office just before you arrived. I assumed him an associate and did not think to—”

“What of it?”

“That lion watermark is the same on both his card and her envelope. You see?” Savoy gave him Edward Tukebote’s business card and Reynard acknowledged it with a cursory glance. “That is the crest of Britain’s North Borneo Company, if I am not mistaken, a financial extension of Her Majesty’s expansions. This Miss Carlovec came a long way to find you.”

Reynard laughed. “She cannot prove anything. I will hear her accusations, laugh in her face and that will be that. If she came all this way from...where did you say?”

“Borneo.”

“Yes, well. I shan’t just ignore her.”

“It is curious, the very morning after Bill’s death, this woman’s valet is at your place of business. When you proved unavailable, she had him personally deliver the letter to your doorstep. How would she know where to find you?”

“I am not invisible,” Reynard said.

“Bill was one of a select few who knew your lakeside address. Mister Burlington would not have divulged it. Neither would I. I doubt Lasha or your caretakers would be so careless. You have made a point to keep your estate anonymous. Utility records are private. You maintain no significant patterns in your travel. You avoid most social calls. Your post is delivered here. For all anyone knows, you live in this office. All legal dealings are kept confidential.”

“I could have been followed.”

“You said the letter arrived last night,” Savoy said, “and since Lasha received it, that means he arrived
before
you did. Do you recall anyone taking an interest? Asking too many questions?”

“Is this why you are here?” Reynard asked. “More conspiracies?”

“There is more,” Savoy said, with some emotion. He sat down and, methodically, told him everything—the previous night’s findings from the hospital morgue, his interview at Parish Prison and Grant’s story of the so-called Lady of Chalmette. Reynard listened with grave interest. “I have gone so far as to secure Mister Grant into my personal care, seeing he is the only eyewitness.”

“You believe him?” Reynard asked, incredulous.

“I do.”

“Is he...here?”

“In the hall.”

Reynard’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you
insane
?”

“I trust him.”

“What would you say to escape the gallows?”

“Last month,” Savoy said. “ I received this.” He opened his bag and slid free a folded sheet of thick paper. “From Professor Ernst Stronheim. Know of him?”

“I have heard the name. Occultist?”

“A former professor of mine. Our careers have followed similar circles. His studies greatly influenced my own work. For years we maintained a correspondence, but I had not heard from him for over a year...until I received this. It was neither signed nor dated, but his handwriting is unmistakable.”

“What does it say?”

“Read it.”

Haec ego non multis, sed tibi.

Whited sepulchers beautiful outward, inside lie

dead men’s bones. Then Simon Peter having a

sword drew it ... Then said Jesus unto Peter,

Put up thy sword into the sheath: The Cup

which my Father hath given me ... That

ye may put difference between unclean and

clean...

Alea iacta est.

“The first,” Savoy said, “is a maxim from Epicurus: ‘I write this not to the many but to you only.’ The scripture is an altered portion of Saint Matthew, King James edition, chapter twenty three, verse twenty seven, combined with a conglomeration of verses from the Book of Saint John and Leviticus, respectively.”

“And the last?” Reynard asked.

“Another maxim,
Alea iacta est
: ‘The die is cast.’”

“Ominous.”

Savoy nodded. “Indeed. It was posted from the city of Sandakan, North Borneo. Look at Mister Tukebote’s credentials again. You see his city of origin?”

Reynard’s face grew serious. “Coincidence?”

“I do not believe in coincidence. Ernst knew of you.”

“And?”

“No. He knew of...
you
.”

“Ah. I must make quite the dissertation.”

“It is not like that.”

“No?”

“No it is
not
,” Savoy said firmly. “Ernst is a trusted confidant.” He took the letter back from Reynard. “I cannot expect you to appreciate or even understand my feelings, Reynard. You may see me as an old fool—”

“Spare me—”

“
Regardless
,” Savoy said tightly. “It has been my experience that when circumstances begin to weave together, there is an almost certainty of conscious design. This cannot be mere chance. Until we know more of this Miss Carlovec’s intentions, I beg you not to keep her appointment.”

Reynard stood and gazed out the window. He watched for some time. “Come to the house this evening,” he said. “Feel free to bring that man Grant. Lasha ought to find perverse delight in having a murderer at our table. Afterwards we can meet this Miss Carlovec together.”

“You’d have me?”

“You can ask her all the questions you wish.”

Savoy considered it, his expression muted. “That seems…acceptable. Developing an opinion may simply depend on confirming her itinerary; if it matches these cases I have followed, there may be a connection. If not, then my claims are invalid.”

“Fair enough.”

The office door opened and closed followed by a brief interlude of voices, then Frederick Burlington appeared in the doorway. He glanced at Savoy—confused or concerned, it was not clear.

“Mister Burlington,” Reynard said. “Punctuality was traditionally your strong point.”

“My apologies. Errands, sir,” Frederick said. “You asked for legal-sized folders, and a reply from the Levee Board on delivery of concrete from Atlanta.”

“I did?”

“I have been in town all morning.”

“Ah.” He turned his focus back to Savoy. “Seven o’clock this evening?”

Savoy nodded. “Seven o’clock.” He turned to Frederick. “Your arrival is most fortuitous, Mister Burlington. I wonder if you could be of assistance. Will you secure back issues of the
New Orleans Advocate
and
Picayune
from the last ten days? The society sections would be paramount, anything that might announce the arrival of any notable visitors from abroad.”

Frederick looked to Reynard. “Sir?”

“It’s fine,” Reynard said. “Indulge him.”

“Thank you,” Savoy said. “If you can also secure back issues of the
Boston Herald
, say, from mid-August to mid-September, that would be most appreciated.” Frederick removed a small notebook and pencil from his jacket, writing down the request as quickly as he could. “I will inquire as to her route,” Savoy said to Reynard. “Perhaps she has no bearing on my investigation. Perhaps this is just a dreadful misunderstanding.”

“If it isn’t?” Reynard asked.

“I shall be ready for her.”

Savoy gathered Grant and left the office. Reynard returned to his desk, paging through papers as if the previous conversation had never occurred. Frederick Burlington remained in the doorway. “In the future,” Reynard said to him, not looking up, “a note regarding your morning activities is appreciated.”

Frederick continued to watch the front door. “Why do you associate with that man?”

“Arté?”

“I do not like the look of him,” Frederick said.

“He is harmless.”

“That other one—I saw his likeness in yesterday’s paper. He is the very murderer accused of poor Bill’s death.”

“So it would seem,” Reynard said.

“You telephoned the police, I assume?”

“Allow me manage this, Mister Burlington.”

Frederick stiffened. “I do not wish to be disrespectful, but Mister Savoy barks orders as if…” He squared his shoulders. “…as if to replace your late father, God rest his soul.”

That made Reynard laugh. “You
are
cheeky, Freddie.”

“Forgive me, but I—”

“I appreciate your concern, however you—”

“Of course,” Frederick said. “
You do not need his help.
”

This last came almost whispered, solid. Of course, Reynard thought, Freddie was right. An appointment with Miss Carlovec would be more successful without Arté’s meddling. Why did he have to be there? Why did he agree that he
should
be there? He could ask Kiria Carlovec all the questions he wanted, anything to dispel that old man’s presumptions of conspiracy—insane accusations from an eccentric who spent more time meddling than keeping to his duties at Cambridge. This woman was harmless. How would Savoy’s presence make any difference?

“Shall I send word,” Frederick said, “to cancel your appointment?”

Reynard stared blindly outside, over the sidewalks and dark-suited pedestrians. Why did he not have the courage to stand up against Savoy? To think that criminal who had just been sitting in his foyer, the very man accused of Bill’s death invited by Savoy himself—

Damn you!

Frederick was right. Savoy wasn’t his father. He did not have to cower whenever that old man spoke his mind. It did not give him license to bark whenever he felt like it.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Reynard said. “Thank you, Freddie.”

“Shall I confirm tonight’s original appointment with Miss Carlovec?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Frederick left, returning down the hall to his office.

He considered the manager’s desk, the piles of stacked papers and contracts, bundled receipts and promissories, page after yellowed page stuffed in folders and filed and stacked along every inch of the walls. A waste of meaningless economy, all of it. He expelled a breath, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck.

Absolute waste.

He tore the paper from his notebook, scribbled with incomprehensible writing as if he had ever meant to do
anything
for Professor Savoy. He crumpled the paper tight and tossed it into the wastebasket.

9

In a rented two-horse cart, Savoy and Grant followed the riverside road to Chalmette. When they arrived at that familiar dead-end alley, the crowds were long gone and rain had erased the examiner’s paint. They found burnt-out flashbulbs and discarded cigarettes and a spoiled sheet balled up and thrown in a corner. Traces of blood flecked the far wall. Rats scattered at their arrival.

Savoy proceeded to ask Grant questions as he recounted his story. Grant neither changed nor embellished his previous claims. They examined the places where the dead men had lain and searched every trail where the Lady might have walked. Savoy gathered what scraps of evidence others might have missed: flecks of blood into a vial, strands of long, white hair, and other items that might have had no connection.

They took a late lunch then returned to the city, bound for the opulent St. Charles Hotel. The concierge there confirmed the arrival of a Miss Kiria Carlovec of Sandakan, North Borneo, someone so wealthy and exotic that she, rumors said, had hired her own train-car on a personal tour of America. She rode in opulence, a black Concord Stagecoach that seated ten passengers.  With a few dollars from Savoy, the concierge added that Miss Carlovec secured three rooms on the upper floor for herself and her retinue: five native servants of cinnamon skin and black-dot tattoos, arrayed in silk robes and turbans like a Raja’s House Guard. They were commanded with skill by her personal valet—the very model, the concierge added, of an old-world gentleman. Their arrival had made quite the scene, even among the jaded
glitterati
that frequented the hotel and fashionable cafés along the adjoining street.