The Golden Flask (36 page)

As Major Dr. Keen had tried some such potions on
van Clynne with poor results, Jake shrugged. He had
already concocted a ruse to fool Bauer once he was
revived.

With luck, Culper would have solved the problem by
the time he returned to the city. Then Bauer's informa
tion would be superfluous. In any case, the Tory bas
tard would be a fitting trophy to present General Washington with.

"I have also prepared a small supply of sleeping
powder," said Bebeef, walking to the collection of trays
standing below the triangular window. "I know it is one
of your favorite concoctions."

"It's very useful for putting out guards without noise."

"And stunning cats, according to your father."

"I have not launched an attack on a cat in many years!" Jake laughed.

"Take care, my young friend," said Bebeef as Jake
started to leave. He reached up with his bandaged hands. "Do not discount Keen."

"I have not. But he is a man like the rest of us."

The professor's reluctant nod revealed that he might
not completely share that opinion.

* * *

Timothy's eyes were wide circles, glittering as if he had
seen the goddess Diana on the hunt. Jake could barely
suppress a broad smile.

"Come," he told Alison. "If we are going to brave the ferry, we'd best do it when there is a crowd."

"I have been waiting for you," she replied, turning
with a sudden swirl. She started out the door so quickly
Jake had to trot to catch her as she swished past the
blooming money plant at the edge of the walk.

"I will need a new cover story," she told him curtly
as he fell in alongside. "I will henceforth be your wife."

My cousin will suffice."

"A kissing cousin?"

Jake's scowl had little effect on her. She walked mer
rily with a breezy pace, the change of clothes having somehow increased her speed. He shook his head,
thinking that he recognized both the signs and cause of
a peculiar case of love sickness.

"Young Timothy is a handsome lad," he suggested
after they had gone a few more yards.

"He is a little runt."

"A runt?"

"He is a full inch shorter than me."

"He'll grow in time."

"I could whip him with one hand tied behind my back."

"I'm glad to see that wearing a dress has not softened your spirits," said Jake.

"Do you like it?" she asked, swirling.

"It's very nice. As is the scarf."

"Grace helped outfit me. She is a remarkable woman."

"Indeed," said Jake. "I would think anyone who ended with her as a mother-in-law would be very lucky."

Alison gave him an odd look, as if she did not quite
catch his meaning.

"Young Timothy will inherit his father's land,"
hinted Jake. "As well as his uncle's business. I would
think he will be wealthy one day."

"Once a pipkin, always a pipkin," said Alison, turn
ing up her nose and increasing her pace after calling her would-be lover an insignificant pot.

Jake had heard girls make light of beaus before; they
liked to pretend they were sure of themselves. In such
cases, it was useless to argue with them, as they would
only pretend more firmly.

"You're walking quite fast," he told her.

"I can stop and wait for you, if I'm too quick."

"No, no, this is fine. At least I won't have to carry you all the way back to New York."

"I don't think I would give you the pleasure," she said, turning her nose up and increasing her pace.

Chapter Thirty-one

Wherein, Claus van Clynne offers to let go of his wits.

W
h
ile Jake embarked on
his trip to see Bebeef,
Claus van Clynne undertook his own mission, starting
with a pursuit entirely characteristic of the Dutchm
an — a twelve-hour nap. The Dutchman's eyes did not
open until long after the local birds had gone about their business of catching the early worms. Indeed, there were few worms of any variety, early or late, to
be found when van Clynne stretched his arms with a
cranky growl and began rubbing his eyes vigorously. He
soon discovered himself alone in the hideout. Daltoons had launched a full search for Alison upon finding her
missing.

"Just as well," said the Dutchman to himself. "I am
most efficient when unhampered by assistants. Or chil
dren. A spot of breakfast and I shall be back in order.
Assuming I find anything worthy of the name in this
town. Really, the quality of food has gone considerably
downhill since the demise of the governor."

He being Stuyvesant, of course.

Van Clynne's hunger could not be satisfied at the Sons' hideout, which offered a cruel version of porridge in the kitchen downstairs. The squire did not
complain about this; he considered that the few legiti
mately sick inmates in the small corner ward were
aligned with the British side, and ought therefore to be
tortured. Instead, he wiped a bit of water around his
beard, borrowed a pistol from the armory, and went off
to find himself a true breakfast.

Specifically, he wanted sausage. Now, one would
think that, in a city with pigs constantly running under
foot, sausage would be an easy commodity. Not so. For
there is a specific art to making sausage — a Dutch art,
as van Clynne would have gladly explained had anyone
asked.

In the event, he explained anyway, speaking loudly as he walked through the streets to a certain inn on
Pearl Street owned by Samuel Fraunces. Though not
strictly Dutch, Fraunces was a man steeped in the arts
of hospitality, and his studies had led him to a formula
for sausage construction that fairly rivaled that espoused by van Clynne's own mother. The fact that
Fraunces was even now a firm and known member of
the Whig party tended also to enhance the flavor.

His tavern was allowed to operate despite its owner's
politics for a number of reasons, beginning with the
quality of its ale. This morning the place was fairly
empty, and van Clynne found himself greeted by the
owner as he came through the portal to the main room.

"The sentries at King's Bridge are obviously sleep
ing," declared Fraunces in his faint West Indies accent.
"They are allowing everyone into the city."

"As it happens, Samuel, I did not come via King's Bridge," said van Clynne. "I arrived by boat, with a
personal escort."

Two young men sat near the corner window playing a
card game; except for them, the room was empty.

"Your politics have not changed?" van Clynne asked
the keeper in a soft voice.

"My politics are my own business."

"In that case, you may note that my feelings are as
they have always been," declared van Clynne, pulling
out a chair.

"I am sure Congress is glad of that," answered the
keeper sarcastically. "And the king."

"Are you in the habit of talking all day, or will you ask your guest what he wishes to be served?"

"I see no guest before me, only a Dutchman who owes me ten pounds."

"Bah, ten pounds — a trifle." Van Clynne slipped off
his shoe. "A double helping of sausages, if you please.
Some fresh eggs, and if you can find any decent coffee
in that cramped cellar of a kitchen, I will take that as
well."

"You will take nothing until you settle what you owe me. I will have my sailor friends here kick you out."
Fraunces gestured at the two young card players, neither one of whom made any sign to have heard. They
were engaged in the arcane rite of cribbage. The
Americans could have reinvaded New York and they
would not have cared a whit, nor a Nobs.

But as the keeper set his fists on his hips, a smelly
but genuine two-pound note drawn against Murdock &
Company in Glasgow appeared in the Dutchman's fist.
Fraunces grabbed the paper as it fluttered to the table,
then retreated back to the kitchen, humming a song to
himself. Coffee was issued, bread was found; within fif
teen minutes a girl appeared carrying two plates of fine
sausage and a large covered dish of eggs.

Fraunces nearly fainted when she returned to the back with another two-pound note.

A third appeared when the proprietor came to clear
the dishes. By now he realized something serious must
be afoot.

"I cannot take this money from you, Claus. Cannot,
indeed."

Van Clynne looked up in amazement. "The Scottish
bank is good for it, I assure you. And you will notice the elaborate engraving, protecting against counterfeits."

"Either you are very ill, or expect some great favor in return."

"Do I look sick?"

"Exactly the case. Exactly." Fraunces started to back
away.

Van Clynne took the bill he had proffered and
folded it neatly in his fist, where by some sleight of
hand he managed to make it produce a twin. This had
the effect of arresting Fraunces's retreat.

When a third note materialized in his hand, the
keeper found his feet moving forward involuntarily. He
knew the inevitable outcome but was powerless to stop
himself from snatching for the bills, which naturally disappeared as soon as his fingers were extended.

"I am looking for Miss Melanie Pinkerton," said van
Clynne, pushing away his empty plates. "I believe you
know the family."

Fraunces frowned heavily. "What would you want with her? She's too young for you."

"I merely wish to speak to her." The squire opened his hand, thumbing the bills as if counting them. "She is no longer seeing General Howe, I trust."

"Baff — the swine claims to have thrown her over. He
came within an inch of ruining the girl. For that alone he should be hanged."

"Agreed," said van Clynne, fanning the bills. "I won
der where I might find her."