Clementine (5 page)

Phinton Kulp feigned affront. He leaned forward and put his hands on the armrest between them and said, “Are you trying to insist that you’re not, in fact, the renowned actress and former, shall we say, ‘Confederate enthusiast’ Belle Boyd?”

“You’re not very good at this,” she said dryly. “I was a spy, you silly man—and a far better spy than I was ever an actress, but a lady has to eat and the stage kept me in meals between the lean times. Now. I want you to settle some things for me, in quick succession—or else I’ll summon the captain and have you forcibly returned to your appropriate seat.”

“Anything to satisfy your curiosity, ma’am.”

“Excellent. Tell me your real name, what you’re doing aboard this ship, and what you really want from me, and tell me quickly. Though it’s not yet noon, I’ve had a full and tiring day already and I do not speak in jest of my desire for solitude.”

Behind his spectacles the jade-colored eyes narrowed in a way that didn’t quite match the catlike grin he fashioned. “Very well, and very reasonably proposed. My real name is Mortimer, so you must pardon me if I selected something else. Phinton was the name of my sister’s first horse, and he was a good horse, thank you very much, so I’ve appropriated it and I will insist upon it. I am on board this ship with the express intent of reaching Jefferson City—”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she interrupted.

“And so I shall. In that grand city I have business which must be attended to, and attended to without delay. Following the death of an uncle I scarcely knew, I seem to have inherited a dance hall. On the off chance that this satisfies the demands of your question, I’ll now move on to your final query before you have a chance to scowl at me any further—I wanted only to speak with you, and to express my most heartfelt admiration.”

“For my acting skills?”

“That and more,” he hid a smirk behind a delicate clearing of his throat.

Against her better judgment, Maria asked, “To what do you refer?”

“Only that I’ve long heard tales of the Southern girl with a tongue like a razor and a smile that moves mountains…or dirigibles, as the case may be. That was quite a lashing you gave the poor gent at the ticket counter.”

“I’m well past girlhood, Mr. Kulp; and as for the ticket agent, I did him no harm whatsoever.”

“Yet the threat was rather present, I think you must admit—to yourself, if not to me.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, but it was a worthwhile lie because she’d decided to keep him talking, if only to lead him into saying something useful. His true intent still eluded her by design, and she didn’t care for it.

He cleared his throat again, using the expectoration as an excuse to cover his mouth with his fist. “Since you’ve not denied being the actress Belle Boyd—which is just as well, since we both know precisely who you are—and since you’ve already so eloquently confessed to your wartime activities, I might assume that once or twice, you’ve been known to hurt a man or two.”

“Once or twice, plus half a dozen or more. And if you don’t vacate these premises, perhaps that tally will rise.”

He pouted. “Come now, Belle. There’s no need for threats. Why can’t you give me the same sort of smile you’ve given our illustrious captain?”

“Because Captain Oliver was a gentleman.”

“And I’ve shown you something other than the utmost chivalry?”

She shook her head. “The circular talk will get you nowhere.”

“Except back to the beginning. Shall I try again?”

“You shall not, Mr. Kulp. You shall return to your seat with all haste if you have nothing of substance to tell me, and if you are likewise incapable of leaving me in peace.”

He shrugged merrily and said, “How on earth am I supposed to comply with such contradictory instructions? You’ve now ordered me to say something pertinent, and yet to keep quiet.”

“No, I suggested either one or the other. Meet one of these goals or
be on your way
.”

Finally, for a moment, he was silent. He stared pointedly at the folder in her lap, and something in his voice changed when he said more quietly, “So it’s true. The Pinks have snatched you up and put you to work.”

She hesitated in her response. “It’s not a secret,” she said, which was true.

“It’s not a widely known fact,” Phinton Kulp replied, and this was also true.

“Then what’s it to you?” she asked him flatly.

“Nothing at all. It’s as you said before, ‘A lady has to eat.’ But there must be a less dangerous way for a woman of your notoriety to keep herself in skirts and furs.” He retreated several inches, giving her both more breathing room and yet, cause for a little more worry.

“My state of employment is no concern of yours,” she told him.

And he said, “You’re right. But you can’t blame me for being curious, and you might want to treat interested strangers with less defensiveness. Pinkerton has operatives and informants from coast to coast, you know; and it won’t serve your purposes very well to send them trundling off to their seats, as if they’re naughty children caught under the tree before Christmastime. There are networks in place, alliances and allegiances to be balanced. Not everyone loves the Pinkerton name—even among those who sometimes serve it.”

She guessed, “You’re no operative.”

“At this time, you are correct. But I’m still a useful man to know—even Mr. Pinkerton will tell you that, if you ask him.”

“How convenient for you, that he isn’t present to interrogate on the subject.”

“On the contrary, I’d be pleased to see him, if only to see you set at ease with his reassurances. It must be difficult,” he said, keeping his voice low and now adding a bit of warning to it—a dash of sinister seasoning that Maria filed away for future reference. “Being a woman of your reputation, traveling alone, working in a man’s field in which you have absolutely no experience.”

“It isn’t so different from spying,” she insisted.

“From one point of view, I suppose not,” he agreed. “But between North and South you had only one enemy. Adversaries and cohorts might have doubled their roles, or blurred them, but at the end of the day you had only one authority to thwart and dodge. Wearing a Pinkerton shield, you’ll find things are more complicated. Pinkerton wages dozens of tiny wars, all at once, all across the territories. Working for him…it’s a dangerous calling, if you could call it that.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s no such thing,” he promised. “Only an observation buttressed by a friendly suggestion, proposed by a concerned traveler who knows a little too well how hard this road is for a man—much less a magnolia like yourself.”

She snorted, and while making a show of making herself more comfortable, she reached for the derringer she always kept loaded in her smallest bag. “And toting secrets under threat of jail and hanging—that was a day at the park, picking flowers. Now if I may be so bold as to offer
you
a bit of advice, Mr. Kulp, then here you have it: There are people in this world who steadfastly refuse to understand anything unless it’s couched in terms of violence. In my experience, it is most expedient to simply accommodate them.”

“Expedient?”

“You may as well communicate in the language they best understand.”

Neither his spectacles nor his fist could hide the sly expression he assumed when he replied, “Does that mean you intend to shoot me, the very moment you get your hand wrapped around the gun in your bag?”

“I intend to think about it. And you clearly think you’re quite clever, anticipating me like that, but I think it only makes you moderately well read.”

“Both of the biographical pieces I’ve seen on the subject of the South’s most notorious spy
did
mention that you never travel unarmed, it’s true. And let me assure you, I don’t plan to press my luck on the point.”

Without bothering to note the gratuitous flattery, much less address it, she asked, “Does that mean you’re ready to leave me alone?”

“It means,” he said, removing the spectacles and wiping them on a handkerchief he pulled from a pocket, “That I’m reasonably satisfied that Pinkerton knows what he’s doing, and I’ll pass the word along.”

“Pass word…to whom?”

He didn’t answer, except to gather himself up and stretch, and begin a sideways shuffle back into the aisle. Then he said, “I hope your flight is a pleasant one, Belle Boyd, and send my regards to Mr. Rice when you see him.” He pinched the front of his hat in a tiny gesture that barely passed for a tip, and he returned to his spot at the front of the seating area without another word.

Maria almost called out after Phinton Kulp with demands for explanations, but doing so would’ve openly declared that he’d rattled her so she restrained herself. She settled back in the seat, drawing her shoulders away from the cold wall and window; and she kept her hand inside the purse—on the single-shot back-up plan that had saved her more than once before.

And between her bouts of uncertainty, her concerns about her fellow passengers, and the idle second thoughts that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all, she slept off and on.

All the way to Jefferson City.

CAPTAIN CROGGON BEAUREGARD HAINEY

5

Halliway Barebones swore on a stack of gold-paged Bibles that his hotel was booked to the hilt, with nary a room to spare for his three visitors. He apologized to the point of groveling, and pointed them towards a ramshackle, three-story establishment a few blocks away. According to Barebones, they shouldn’t meet any trouble—for Indians, Chinamen, and free Negroes were routinely served there without incident, and the hotel owner was correct on that point.

The accommodations were not first class, but they were not last class either; and although Hainey knew good and well that Barebones had been lying when he professed no vacancy, he didn’t make half the stink about it that he might have, given different circumstances. The captain was exhausted beyond words, and more to the point, Simeon and Lamar were half dead on their feet. Hainey might push himself past the bounds of reason, health, and good sense, but he couldn’t impose any further obligation on his men.

After all, the
Valkyrie
wasn’t going anywhere, at least not overnight. They could afford to sleep a few hours better than they could afford to keep pushing east.

At the High Horse Boarding House and Billiards Hall, two large rooms with two large beds cost the captain six dollars out of pocket. He claimed one room for himself and left the other to his companions, who made a side trip downstairs to buy tobacco and spirits before holing up and settling in for the night.

Hainey skipped the vices and threw himself into bed without any fanfare.

When he dreamed, he dreamed of his own ship—and of the clouds, drafts, and passages over the Rockies. He dreamed briefly of Seattle, the walled city filled with gas and peril, and of the giant Andan Cly who had tried to help retrieve the
Free Crow
when first it was stolen. He also dreamed of the skittering of black birds, shifting their weight back and forth on a tree branch, their tiny claws gripping and scraping the wood.

But in the back of his head, even when so fogged with such badly needed rest, Croggon Hainey’s exceptional sense of alarm awakened him just enough to wonder if the sound he heard was leftover from sleep…or if it was taking place outside his door. It remained even when his eyes were open—the dragging clicks, but not of birds on branches. It was the sound of someone moving softly and examining the room’s door.

Or its lock.

Or its occupant.

A quick shift in shadow from the door implied feet moving back and forth on its other side; and Hainey, now thoroughly awake, crept from the unfluffed feather bed as quietly as his sizeable bulk would allow. He eschewed his shoes but felt about silently for his gunbelt, and upon finding it, he removed the nearest pistol—a Colt that was always loaded. Automatically, his fingers found the best hold and fitted the gun against his palm.

He slipped sideways to the wall, and slid against it until he was inches from the door’s frame. He listened hard and detected one man, seemingly alone. The stranger was trying to keep quiet and not doing the very best job; whoever he was, he reached for the knob and gave it a small twist. When the door didn’t yield, he retreated.

Croggon Hainey slipped his unarmed hand down to the knob, and with two swift motions side by side, he flipped the lock and whipped the door open—then pointed the Colt at approximate head-height, in order to properly reprimand whoever was standing there.

“What do you want?” he almost hollered, his voice rough with sleep, but his gun-hand steady as a book on a table. He dropped the weapon to the actual head-height of the prowler, who was somewhat shorter than expected.

The prowler quivered and cringed. He threw his arms up above his head and curled his body in upon itself as he tried to melt into the striped wallpaper behind him. “Sir!” he said in a whisper loud enough to be heard in Jefferson City. “Sir, I didn’t…sir…Barebones sent me, sir!”

This revelation in no way assured the captain that it was safe or appropriate to lower his weapon, so he didn’t. He eyed the intruder and saw precious little to worry him, but that didn’t set him at ease, either.

The speaker was a skinny mulatto, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. He was wearing the food-stained apron of a kitchen hand tied around his waist, and a faded blue shirt tucked into brown pants. When he put his arms down enough to see over his own elbow, the boy asked, “Sir? Are you the captain? You must be the captain, ain’t you?”

“I’m
a
captain, and I know Barebones, so maybe I’m the man you’re looking for.” He backed into his room without inviting the boy to follow him. Without taking his eyes or his gun off the kid in the doorway, he used one hand to light a lamp and pick it up.

“I’ve got a message for you, sir.”

“Is that why you were trying to let yourself inside my room?”

“Only because I didn’t know which one was yours, sir. The lady downstairs said you’d taken two. Sir, I have a message for you. Here.” He held out a folded piece of paper.

“Set it down.”

The boy bent his knees until he was down at a crouch. He dropped the note.

“Now get out of here before I fill you full of holes, you idiot kid!” Hainey almost roared. The messenger was down the hall, down the stairs, and probably out into the street by the time the captain picked up the note and shut the door again, locking himself inside with even greater care than he’d taken before he’d gone to bed.

The weight of his weariness settled down on his shoulders as soon as the door was closed and he felt somewhat safe again; but the lantern’s butter-yellow light made his eyes water and the note was brittle in his hand as he opened it. The message was composed in the flowery hand of a man who clearly enjoyed the look of his own penmanship.

Incoming to Jefferson City in another few hours—a Pinkerton operative sent from Chicago. Whoever stole your ship has friends in high places with very deep pockets. Borrow a new ship and get out of town by the afternoon if you know what’s good for you. If Pinkerton’s paid to be involv-ed, someone has big plans for your bird. Watch where you’re going, but watch your back, too. You’re being tracked.

Hainey crumpled the note in his fist and crushed it there, squeezing with enough rage to make a diamond. He composed himself and sat on the edge of the bed. He held the note over the lantern’s flame and let it evaporate into ash between his fingers, then he set the lantern aside and dropped himself back onto the bed. The lantern stayed lit, because if he’d blown it out, he might’ve fallen back asleep.

He needed to think.

Jefferson City wasn’t more than a hop, skip, and a jump from Kansas City, though Barebones was right—he probably had until the following afternoon before he ought to get too worried. But Pinkerton? The detective agency? The captain had heard stories, and he didn’t like any of them. The Pinks were strike-breakers, riot-saboteurs, and well organized thugs of the expensive sort. Like Barebones’ note had suggested, they had pockets deep enough to pay for loyalty or information from anybody who was selling it. Down south of the Mason-Dixon, they weren’t so well known. But in the north and west, the Pinks were their own secret society.

To the best of Hainey’s knowledge, no one had ever called the Pinks on him before—despite his less-than-legitimate business enterprises, his occasional bank robbery, or his intermittent piracy. It made things sticky, and even stranger than they already were.

Why would anyone steal the
Free Crow
in the first place?

Anyone with the resources to invoke the Pinks ought to be able to afford their own damn war bird.

He fumed on this matter for another five minutes before leaning over and stifling the lamp, dropping the austere room into darkness once more. In half an hour he was asleep again, and before long the light of morning was high enough to make him semi-alert and terribly grouchy.

A loud knock on the door didn’t do much to improve his state of mind; but Simeon’s pot of coffee and Lamar’s covered plate of breakfast fixings shook off the last sour feelings of insufficient sleep. He invited the men into the room, helped himself to the coffee (a quarter a cup, or a dollar for the whole carafe) and to the breakfast (a dollar a plate, and his men had already eaten theirs).

As he sat on the edge of the bed and made short work of the offerings, he told them about the note and the warning.

Lamar twisted his mouth into a frown and said, “That don’t make any sense. Who would hire the Pinks to come after us?”

“I don’t know,” Hainey said around a mouthful of eggs. “It’s bothering me too. God knows we didn’t hire ’em, and who on earth gives a good goddamn if the
Free Crow
gets stolen, except for us?”

Simeon shrugged and said, “Nobody, except whoever stole it.”

The captain pointed his fork at the first mate and said, “Exactly. That’s all I can figure, anyway. Except at first, I was bothered because of the money. It costs money to hire the Pinks and get them to act as your enforcers. You’d think that people with money could just buy or build their own aircraft; but then I got thinking.”

“Uh oh,” Simeon grinned.

“What I got thinking is this: The
Free Crow
was the strongest bird of her kind in the northwest territories—or at least, she’s the toughest engine anywhere close to Seattle. And I don’t think I flatter myself too much when I say that nobody in his right mind would swipe that ship out from under me for no good reason at all; so all I can figure is, this must’ve been a crime of opportunity. Somebody out west needed that ship to perform a specific task.”

“What kind of task?” Simeon asked, tipping half a cup of coffee into a tin and taking a sip.

Lamar answered thoughtfully, before the captain could reply. “Something heavy. Someone needed our bird to move something really, really heavy from northwest to southeast.”

Hainey set the fork down on the edge of his plate, and Simeon froze with his cup at the edge of his lips in order to ask, “How’d you come to that conclusion?”

The engineer said, “Ain’t you seen her flying? She’s weighed down with something, and weighed down bad. Otherwise, we could’ve never stayed as close behind her as we’ve been doing so far. She ought to have outpaced that nameless bird by a week, but she’s never got more than half a day on us. And when she moves, she looks like she’s carrying so much cargo that she can’t hardly lift herself up.”

Hainey took one more bite and chewed it slow, before saying, “Which means she picked up something in Seattle, because she didn’t have anything but a few crates of guns when we lost her. All right, it’s coming together now. So Felton Brink, may he rot in hell, he takes the
Free Crow
because he has something heavy he needs to move—and ours is the only engine tough enough to carry it.”

“And whatever it is,” Simeon concluded, “it’s important enough for somebody to put the Pinks on our tail in order to keep us from taking it back. But who? Where’s Brink taking our bird?”

Lamar’s frown deepened. “The Pinks do a lot of work for the military, don’t they? The Union uses them to shut down draft riots, and move money around. I’ve read about it, here and there.”

Simeon said, “So the Union could sure as hell afford to pay the Pinks.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’re behind this,” Hainey was quick to say. “They might be, sure. It might be worth our time to ask around, if we can. But we’ll have to balance our time real careful. If we’re going to stay on the
Free Crow
’s trail, we need to get ourselves together, swipe that Union bird, and get back in the air.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” the first mate declared. He down-ed the last of his coffee and left the tin cup sitting on the basin.

Hainey stood up and pulled a shirt over his undershirt, then reached for his sharp blue coat. “Let’s see about the horses and that rotten coach, and head out to the service yards. We don’t have all day before the Pinkerton op finds his way into town, and I’d like to be gone before he gets here.”

They left the High Horse by nine o’clock and took their secondhand coach down near the service yards, where they paid a Chinaman named Ling Lu to hold it and keep the horses behind his laundry. Another hundred dollars, spread around judiciously, revealed the general location of the
Valkyrie
and the name of a Pinkerton informant who had been known to let information flow in more than one direction.

Hainey sent Lamar ahead to the ship, with a forged document that declared him a free citizen and a Union veteran. He also included a letter of recommendation, composed as a fictional white man who managed a shipping yard in Chattanooga, declaring that Lamar was handy with tools and rich with integrity. Lamar was, in fact, handy with tools and absolutely faithful to his captain; and Hainey trusted that the engineer would learn what needed to be learned in order to fly the craft.

Meanwhile, he took Simeon back to the red quarters at the yard’s edge—where the saloons and billiards were cheap and easy, and the dance hall girls were either far older or far younger than they really ought to be. It wasn’t a pretty place, and it smelled like a cross between a coyote den and a leaky still. But in the right corners, hiding in the right shadows, information could be bought and sold as easily as a newspaper—even by a dark-skinned man with a terrible scar, and a foreigner with an accent that no one in Kansas City could place.

Behind a grocery store that dealt contraband ammunition out the back doors, Hainey and Simeon found Crutchfield Akers—a man with a hand-rolled cigarette sticking moistly to his bottom lip, and a pair of suspenders with eagles printed from top to bottom. His pants were rolled to keep them out of the wet sawdust and tobacco juice that covered the grocery stoop, and if he’d shaved or trimmed any part of his face the last six weeks, you couldn’t have proved it to the captain.

“You Crutchfield?”

“That’s me,” he answered with a nod that dipped his hat so that a shadow covered his eyes. “Who’s asking?”

“A man with money and some questions, looking for a man with answers and an open pocket. Maybe we can share a drink next door and have a conversation.”