Beyond Compare (25 page)

Rafe nodded.

“Even better,” Kyria went on, a gleam in her eye, “maybe tonight at the opium den, we will find the man we are looking for and put a stop to what he’s doing.”

Rafe grinned. “Darlin’, I like the way you think.”

They left the house a little before midnight. Kyria had dressed as she planned in old clothes Theo had
worn when he was not quite sixteen and had not yet grown to his full height. The trousers were a gray tweed, cut a little full and thereby concealing the very feminine swell of her hips. The combination of shirt, waistcoat and jacket effectively hid her breasts, but Kyria decided to wrap binding around her breasts to flatten them out, just to make sure. Her hair was the hardest part, for it was not only long and thick, but also curly, so that it was a great mass to stuff beneath a hat. Moreover, she was afraid that it would look odd for a man to wear his hat all the time he was indoors, and if she removed the hat, her piled-up hair would be revealed.

However, Joan, with her usual skill, was able to braid most of Kyria’s hair into a single, thick braid, which she then wound flat against her head and pinned securely, covering it with shorter hair around Kyria’s face. It was not the most attractive style, but it would pass a cursory look if Kyria had to remove her bowler hat. She smoothed all of it over with pomade, which had the added benefit of darkening the distinctive red of Kyria’s hair.

“What do you think?” Kyria asked Rafe when she descended the stairs to join him in the foyer. She turned around and plopped the hat on her head. “Will I pass for a boy?”

Rafe’s eyes darkened in a way that made Kyria’s abdomen tighten. He took a step closer to her, and his voice dropped. “Do you think I would get arrested for kissing a boy?”

Kyria smiled, heat snaking through her, as she looked up into his eyes. “I don’t know. Why don’t you try it?”

His hands went to her waist, and he lowered his head toward hers. She stretched up toward him invitingly.

The doorknocker thudded loudly just then, and the two of them sprang apart. Rafe grimaced and opened the door, waving off the footman who was hurrying into the foyer. Tom Quick stood on the doorstep.

Quick grinned. “I can see you haven’t got the hang of being a gentleman yet. Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to open a door?”

Rafe shrugged. “Bad habit. You know how Americans are.”

Quick looked on past Rafe to Kyria, and his brows shot up as he let out a surprised whistle. “Well, look at you! I wouldn’t have known you, and that’s a fact.”

“But would you think I am a man?”

“One of them tiresome artistic types, maybe,” Tom allowed.

“I think a mustache would help,” Kyria mused. “I wish I had one of those stage mustaches. Do you suppose if we went by a theater…?”

“No time,” Rafe said, taking her by the elbow. “Besides, it would just make you more noticeable. What we want, if you’ll remember, is for you to blend in.”

He reached up and settled her hat at a better angle on her head. “Try to keep your face in shadow.”

They took the carriage, and as they drove through the dark streets of London, Tom told them about his further investigations. “I found out a few things today after I talked to you. I checked with some of me former acquaintances…”

“Of the criminal variety?” Kyria asked.

Tom shrugged. “Some are still in the trade. Others are just, well, folks that would know about such things,” he replied vaguely. “Nobody seemed to know
much about this particular shop. Only one or two even knew about opium dens at all. Gin’s cheaper and easier for them that ain’t got money.”

“Who goes to such places, then?” Kyria asked.

“Well, with the Englishmen and Americans and such, it’s mostly either sailors who picked up the habit on their travels, or it’s ones here who got some money and like to try something new and thrilling. Daring types. Some artists and writers and such who think it makes ’em creative, like.”

“I see.”

“What puzzled me, though, was the way it looked. I’d heard about opium dens, and, well, it was different from what I’d heard. Turns out there’s two types. More common is the Chinese shop.”

“The opium comes from China?” Rafe asked.

“No,” Kyria said. “China actually imports it from India. That’s what the Opium Wars were all about. It was scandalous, really. China was trying to shut down its importing of opium because of the damage to its citizens, and it was the British who wanted to keep them from doing so because it damaged our trade!”

Tom nodded. “Seems the opium comes in from India and Turkey and places. The way the Chinese folks smoke it is they take the opium and put it into this pipe that looks pretty much like a regular pipe, except with a really long stem, like. They smoke it straight and it’s stronger. That’s the sort of opium den where the Chinese and most others go. But there’s another kind, the Turkish kind, and that’s the sort I saw last night. There, it seems, they mix it with tobacco and smoke it in their water pipes.”

“What are those?” Kyria asked.

“These sort of jugs that they put water in, and then
there’s this long tube that comes out of it, with a mouthpiece on the end, and that’s what you smoke from.
Hookahs,
they call them, too. It’s the way they smoke tobacco and other drugs. It’s not as strong because they mix the opium with tobacco, see? And most who favor those dens are Arabs and Turks and such.”

“Lebanese, like our friend Mr. Habib,” Rafe added.

“So…another connection to Istanbul,” Kyria mused.

“Yeah—or just the place Habib would naturally go to if he’s an addict.”

When they reached the warehouse where the opium den was located, they had the coachman drive past it and stop a block away before they disembarked. The carriage lumbered off down a side street to wait for them, and the three of them walked back to the nondescript warehouse.

Tom pushed open the door, nodding to the man who stepped forward to greet them. Kyria kept behind Rafe in an attempt to show as little of her face as possible, but she glanced all around her interestedly. The term
opium den
conjured up in her mind a vision of sinful, exotic surroundings. She had envisioned dark red velvet sofas and low, flickering lights, gauzy curtains and enormous plush cushions on Persian-carpeted floors.

The reality was disappointingly stark. The floor was bare, old wood, scarred and pitted, and there was no red velvet or exotic lights anywhere in evidence. Ordinary kerosene lamps lighted the room rather dimly, and the drab walls were unadorned by any sort of hangings, gauzy or otherwise. Cushions and mats were scattered around the room, most of them occupied, and among the seating arrangements were low tables on which sat water pipes of various shapes and sizes. Men lay and sat beside these tables, puffing at the pipes and
paying little attention to anything. In an area off to one side, one of the girls Tom had mentioned danced for a group of men, and Kyria’s eyes widened a little at her skimpy attire of filmy trousers hung low on her hips and a short blouse that left her entire stomach area exposed. As she danced, bells tinkled at her wrists and ankles and waist.

The man who had greeted them went on to offer them all the pleasures of the place, but Rafe shook his head, saying, “I just want to look around a bit first. Visiting, you see. I’m from the States. I’ve never seen one of these places before.”

“Very good, very good,” the man said, smiling and bobbing his head. “You look. Anything you want.”

Rafe, Kyria and Tom strolled through the room, the doorman trailing alongside them, still smiling and dipping his head obsequiously until finally Rafe stopped him with a sharp word. They looked carefully all around them as they walked. The customers were largely Middle Eastern in appearance, many of them clad in traditional robes and turbans, or
kaffiyehs,
some of them in Western suits. But there were a number of Englishmen, as well, and Kyria realized with a start of recognition that a man standing near a beaded-glass curtain at the rear of the room was the third son of Lord Herringford.

There was, disappointingly, no sign of Habib or either of the collectors who had shown interest in the box.

Kyria looked back at Lord Herringford’s son and saw him nod to the man with whom he had been chatting and slip through the curtain of beads. Kyria poked Rafe in the back.

“Look,” she hissed in his ear. “Someone went back there.”

Rafe nodded and wound his way casually through the room until he was near the beaded curtain.

“Don’t look back,” he whispered to the others. “Be natural.”

Kyria, concentrating on keeping her stride long and manly while at the same time unobtrusively scanning the room, decided it was hard enough just to keep from craning her neck behind her to see whether the doorman was watching them without having to think about what looked natural.

They paused in front of the beaded curtain, and as Rafe turned to Kyria, Tom slipped through the curtain into the back. Kyria realized then that she and Rafe blocked the smaller man from the view of the rest of the room.

“Go on and stroll a little ways over there,” Rafe murmured. “Then come back to meet me.”

Kyria did as he told her, walking away from him and pretending interest in something on the low table in front of her. A man lay on a mat beside it, asleep, the long tube and mouthpiece of the water pipe dangling beside him. She turned and walked back. Rafe had walked farther away, and she sauntered over to join him.

She wondered what they were doing and why they had not joined Tom, but she kept her mouth shut, knowing that it would be disastrous for anyone to hear her voice. Rafe walked back through the room, moving without seeming haste. The doorman was watching them, and a frown appeared on his face. He glanced around, then looked back at Kyria and Rafe.

When they drew near, Rafe would have passed him,
but the man planted himself directly in their path, saying, “Where is other?”

“What? Other what?” Rafe replied, looking puzzled.

“Other man. Other man.”

“Oh, that chap. He stopped to visit someone he knew,” Rafe said, gesturing vaguely behind them. “Very interesting place you have here.”

He started around the man to the door.

“You like? You buy?” the doorman said, distracted from the matter of Tom’s presence by Rafe’s leaving. “Do not go. I give you good price, good price. First time offer,” he said, grinning, in the tone of something learned by rote.

Rafe smiled pleasantly, waving him off as he walked away, Kyria in his wake. “It’s not what I expected, you see. Not the sort of place I was told about. I think it must be a Chinese place we want.”

“No. Chinese not the best way. Best opium in the world comes from Turkey!” the man said, opening his arms grandly. “Turkish way of smoking is the best way. You see. I show you. Give you first pipe free.”

The man pursued them out into the street, earnestly selling the admirable points of his method of opium intake, but Rafe merely shook his head good-naturedly and walked on. After trailing them halfway down the block, the doorman finally gave up and trudged back to the warehouse, grumbling under his breath.

“What are we doing?” Kyria whispered, once the doorman was gone.

Rafe glanced back to make sure that the man was out of sight, then picked up his pace. “We’re looking for an alleyway beside this building. Tom told me there was one. He’s going to try to find a back door and open it for us, and we are going to inspect the back rooms
of this place. I figured we might be able to hide Tom’s slipping in, but if all three of us went back there, they’d be bound to come charging after us. This way, with any luck, we’ll get in the back way and they’ll not know it.”

They came upon the alleyway and stopped, peering down it doubtfully. It was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and enveloped in stygian darkness. They started down the alley cautiously.

As they walked, their eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, and they realized that there were a few dimly lit windows opening into the alley, though all were covered with curtains. A door opened not far ahead of them, a rectangle of light revealing Tom Quick, who was looking up and down the alley. They hurried to join him inside and shut the door behind them.

“There’re a bunch of little rooms back here,” Tom told them, speaking in a whisper. “I’ve looked into most of ’em. They’re either empty or just have some bloke or two in ’em smoking away.”

“Private rooms for their more important customers,” Rafe said. “It makes sense. Any offices?”

“No.” Tom nodded his head toward a plain staircase behind them. “But I haven’t been upstairs yet.”

“Let’s try it. We might get lucky and find Habib,” Rafe said, starting toward the stairs.

“Or whoever he was meeting.” Kyria followed Rafe up the stairs, adding, “If, of course, he was meeting someone.”

“And if we would recognize that person if we saw him,” Rafe stuck in.

Kyria sighed. It didn’t seem likely that they were going to meet with any success. Still, they had to try; it was the only lead they had.

At the top of the stairs, they found a hallway lined with doors on either side, all closed. They moved along the corridor, opening the doors as they went and peering inside. The first two rooms Kyria tried were empty, though obviously set up for a customer, with a narrow cot and a low table containing a water pipe.