The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (14 page)

An hour and a half later, Irene was safely outside the Patch, having been escorted by Patrick. He left her with a name and an address, and a quick cab ride took Irene to a row of respectable brick shops on Grand. One of the shops had a velvet-lined tray of watches in the window, above which hung a sign that read,
H. S. Lawrence
. The name matched the one that Patrick had given her. Irene opened the door. A bell jingled, a burst of warm air met her, and she found herself inside the shop.

Glass displays made a U, offering an array of watches, for men and women, some with leather straps, others with delicate metal bands, and many set with precious stones. Behind the displays sat a more serviceable workbench covered with tiny pieces, all placed with obvious care. A stout man with a long white beard emerged from a back room. He was dressed in a dark suit, but there was something jolly about his face, an almost Santa Claus-type smile that hovered on the edges of his mouth.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“A friend sent me,” Irene said. “He told me to ask if you had a 1904 Le Deniau. For my godmother.”

At the coded request, the man’s face showed a hint of surprise, but he simply nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I am Hugo Lawrence. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for a box that was stolen from my home. Perhaps the box has been sold. Or perhaps its contents.”

Hugo frowned. “Do you know what the box contained?”

Irene flushed. “No. Unfortunately, it had been delivered only a short time before.”

“I’m sorry,” Hugo said. “Without an idea of the contents—”

“It was a small box,” Irene said. “No more than a foot long. It didn’t have any obvious way to open it. I was thinking that such a box might be sold as such, without opening it.”

The color drained from Hugo’s ruddy cheeks. “Ma’am, I do not have this box, nor have I seen it.”

“But you’ve heard of it.”

Hugo hesitated and then nodded.

“Why? What do you know of it?”

“Very little, ma’am. Important men in the city have made it clear to me that the box, should it come into my hands, was not to be opened. I was given instructions on how to deliver the box, should someone try to sell it to me.” He paused again. “I was also told a second time, most explicitly, not to open the box.”

“Who wants it?”

“Ma’am, my clients are always confidential. I cannot—”

“Please,” Irene said. “I can pay. The box belonged to my father, and I simply must get it back for him.”

Hugo drummed his fingers on the glass display. He began to shake his head, but before he could speak, Irene stepped forward, pulled out her purse, and drew out a heavy gold bracelet set with sapphires. She placed it on the glass. Hugo’s eyes widened.

“Surely this is enough for a few names,” Irene said. “Along with my promise of total discretion, of course.”

“Of course,” Hugo murmured. He pointed to the bracelet. “May I?”

Irene nodded.

Hugo retrieved a jeweler’s loupe and studied the bracelet for several minutes. His long white beard was trembling with excitement by the time he had finished. Irene wondered how the man ever managed to get a good deal—his eagerness for the bracelet was palpable.

“Perhaps, with a bit more compensation,” Hugo began.

“I think not.” Irene snatched the bracelet from his hand and turned to walk towards the door. “I was not told that you would waste my time, Mr. Lawrence.”

“A moment, ma’am. Wait just a moment.” Hugo hurried out from behind the displays. “I was simply wondering—”

“Mr. Lawrence, I’m a bit pressed for time. Please forgive me for being abrupt. Do we have a deal?”

Indecision flickered once more in the old man’s eyes, and then greed stamped it out. With his white beard quivering, Hugo Lawrence held out his hand and nodded.

“Wonderful,” Irene said. “I’ll need addresses as well. And then I have a few additional pieces you may be interested in. All of strictly legal provenance, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, drastically increases their value.”

With a look of bewilderment, Hugo Lawrence nodded, leading Irene to the back of the shop.

That was when Irene began to haggle in earnest.

Almost two hours later, still flushed with excitement, and her clutch heavy with the bundle of cash that Mr. Lawrence had produced in exchange for several of the more valuable pieces of jewelry, Irene left the shop. Hugo Lawrence stood in the doorway watching her. His face had lost its Santa Clause shine, and now he looked like a man who was certain he had been taken advantage of, but he was not exactly sure how. Irene gave him a smile and a wave, and then turned and hurried to call a cab.

If Mr. Lawrence had been honest—and Irene was fairly sure that he had—the two men who had contacted him about the box were notorious gangsters. One, named Byrne, led the men who ran Kerry Patch. The other, who was known as the Dane, was a newcomer to the city and pushing hard against the older, more established criminal factions. None of it meant tops or tails to Irene, who had no knowledge of that side of the city. Aside from her two forays into Kerry Patch, the closest she had come to illegal behavior was Francis Derby, who had walked away from his actions without so much as a slap on the wrist. At the very least, though, that experience had showed her that law and order were as much an illusion as anything else.

The revolver Irene carried, on the other hand, was quite real.

A third visit to Kerry Patch in two days seemed unnecessary, and Irene didn’t like the thought of running into the man who had accosted her. Instead, she ordered the cabbie south, towards the neighborhood known as Tiffany. The address Mr. Lawrence had given her was on the south side of the neighborhood. Tiffany, as far as Irene knew, was yet another solid, middle-class neighborhood. The kind of place Irene had never spent much time, if only for the reason that she had no need to.

The sun had lowered in the sky by the time the cab dropped her off two blocks west of the address. Irene was surprised; the day had gone quickly, and the cold was settling in. She stowed her clutch and her larger purse inside her coat, but she transferred the revolver—all six rounds chambered—to the outer pocket, where she could keep a tight grip on it.

If she had a fair bit of luck, she might have the box by suppertime.

The thought buoyed her spirits, and Irene strode towards the address, enjoying the calm and quiet of the neighborhood. The houses were cramped compared to the home she had grown up in, and the brick was worn, the fences in need of a few repairs. Even the streetlamps were scratched and scuffed. But it seemed a decent enough place. The street ahead ended in a cul-de-sac, and at the end of the cul-de-sac sat a brick apartment building with two wings and a flight of cement stairs running up the middle.

At the next intersection, Irene paused. Dark was settling in fast now, draping bulky shadows across the streets, but Irene was still able to see a red-haired man coming down the street to her left. She drew back and waited.

It was Cian Shea. What was he doing here?

He turned towards the apartment building and took the stairs two at a time. Irene moved after him. Patrick had insisted that Cian was honest, but if that were the case, why was he meeting with one of the men who wanted the box? A shriek from the next street startled her, and Irene whipped around. Two children ran down the block, chased by a larger boy, and all three were laughing.

Focus. She needed to focus.

Cian had already disappeared into the building. Irene took the stairs to the top. Her shoes clapped on one of the steps, and she stopped on the landing, praying Cian hadn’t heard. After another minute, though, she proceeded up the final flight of stairs.

The thunderbolt crack of gunfire stopped her. Irene heard a shout, and then wood splintering, and several more shots. She darted up the stairs and around the corner. At the end of the hall, a ruined door stood open, with a shotgun hanging halfway through a hole in the wood. As Irene turned into the apartment, she found a man dead on the floor. A trail of blood showed where he had dragged himself towards the door, and now he had one hand stretched out as he fumbled for the stock of the shotgun. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, and when he looked at Irene, there was hatred in his eyes.

She kicked his hand away and grabbed the shotgun. The man made a last swipe at the gun, his breath gurgling, and then fell on his back. He was still. Irene didn’t know if he was breathing.

Her eyes stung. Her breath came in quick, sharp gasps. The shotgun was unwieldy and heavy.

Irene stumbled down the hall, past another dead man, his face and head destroyed by a gunshot. Irene’s breath came faster. The place smelled of blood and urine.

She tried not to look at the pink and gray spatters on the wall.

She was not going to run away.

Cian’s voice pulled her deeper into the apartment. He stood in the rear bedroom with his back to her, talking to a sandy-haired young man who was holding a box. Irene recognized it instantly. The box Cian had brought to her house.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Cian said. “Now, I think I’m going to take that box, and then we’re going to have a long talk about the Dane.”

The man called Sam met Irene’s eyes over Cian’s shoulder. Irene lifted the revolver, and Sam winced. “Listen, pal,” he said to Cian. “I really appreciate the help, but I don’t think you’re going to be taking the box.”

“And why’s that?” Cian asked.

Irene jabbed him in the back with the tip of the revolver. Cian jerked away, but she kept the pressure up and said, “Because I am.”

“Irene?” Cian asked.

“Hi, Cian. Why don’t you step on over into the corner? I’ll take that box, since it’s mine anyway, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

Cian had a pistol in his hand—the same big gun Irene recognized from the night before—but he nodded and stepped over to the corner. When he turned around, he said, “This is a mistake, Irene. You’re getting yourself deeper into this mess.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“You’d be right,” Cian said. “I don’t have much of a choice, though.”

Irene kept the revolver on Sam and gestured with her free hand. “I don’t either,” she said.

Sam held out the box. Irene took it, and Sam stepped away, hands in the air. He looked every inch a thief: wiry and scruffy, barely more than a boy and the wrong kind of charming. The kind that left a foolish girl without her pearls or her maidenhead and nothing but a string of empty promises. He tried a smile on her. Irene didn’t bother smiling back.

“I’ll leave you boys to figure things out,” Irene said. She stepped backwards, tucking the box under one arm. “No hard feelings.”

“No,” Cian said. “None at all.”

Sam was staring at the box the way a drowning man watches a passing ship.

Irene stepped back again, into the hallway, keeping her eye on the bedroom in case either man decided to reconsider. On her third step, though, she bumped into someone. A hand tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hello, Irene,” Harry Witte said, giving her a dazzling smile. He pulled the revolver from her hand, still smiling, and passed it back to Pearl. “I believe I said we wouldn’t meet again.”

Cian shared a glum look with Sam after Irene left the room. It was the second time that the girl had gotten the drop on him. From the hall came her retreating footsteps, and then a muffled voice.

A man’s voice.

“Give that back,” Irene shouted.

Cian plunged into the hallway. Irene stood face to face with Harry Witte. He lifted the box in both hands, holding it out of Irene’s reach, and over her head he gave Cian a wink.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Cian asked.

“Cian, please,” Harry said. “There are ladies present.”

Irene chose that moment to slap Harry. The blow turned his head a quarter of an inch.

“Irene—” Harry began.

She slapped him again. Both of the man’s cheeks were red now.

“I think you’re overreacting,” Harry said.

“Give me the box,” Irene said. “I found it. It belongs to my father.”

“Technically,” Cian said. “I found it.” Harry and Irene gave Cian identical looks. Cian held up his hands. “Fine. Work it out between the two of you.”

Pearl rolled her eyes.

“Irene, I believe I told you to let this drop.”

She drew herself up, looking like a million bucks, with a gaze that would have stopped a runaway horse. “You told me to let it drop?”

Harry licked his lips once and glanced over at Pearl.

Not a hint of support.

“What I meant is that, for your own safety, you should leave these things to other people.”

“To men, you mean.”

“Now listen here,” Harry said. He lowered the box, tucked it under one arm, and took a step forward.

Irene didn’t as much as budge. Cian fought a smile. The woman had guts. He had to give her that.

“Why should I listen?” Irene asked. “Because you’re a man?”

“Where is all this coming from?” Harry said. “Pearl’s here. She’s a woman, just like you. Pearl. Tell her.”

Harry looked over. Pearl’s face might as well have been carved of stone.