Clementine (6 page)

He shook his head. “Not next door.” The hat lifted enough to reveal a pragmatic gaze. “I don’t mind sitting down with a Negro, but there’s folks who’ll hold it against me. Nothing personal, you understand.”

“Nothing personal,” Simeon repeated with a snort.

Hainey didn’t press it. “All right. We can talk out here if it preserves your social standing. My money spends just as easy as anyone else’s.”

“Let’s see it.”

“Let’s see if you’re the man to ask.”

Crutchfield shrugged and said, “All right.”

“You used to be a Pinkerton operative?”

He said, “No. But I’ve worked for ’em on my own, every now and again. When it suited me, or when the money suited me.”

“Rumor has it you’ll share a word or two about your old employer. Or part-time employer,” Hainey corrected himself. “So if I needed to learn a thing or two about an operative who’s on his way from Chicago right now, maybe you’re the man I ought to ask?”

At this point, he produced a wad of bills from his money belt. He did it slickly and fast, like a magician producing a dove from a waistcoat.

Crutchfield nodded, and smiled with something more than greed. “I’m the man you ought to ask. And I even know which operative you’re asking after, though you’ve got a thing or two wrong. I guess that makes you Croggon Hainey, don’t it? One of the Macon Madmen, ain’t you?”

Hainey refused to look startled. Instead he said, “Good guess, I suppose—though truth is, I’m an easy man to recognize, even if you’ve only heard of me in passing. And tell me why you know it, and why you grin like that when you say it.” He peeled off a ten dollar bill and placed it on the rail beside Crutchfield’s elbow.

Crutchfield slid his hand along the rail and palmed the bill.

He said, “Did you know Pinkerton—the big man, not the agency—used to be a Union spy? He’s retired from it now, obviously. Got better things to do with his time, or maybe he’s just getting old. A lot of those old guys who worked hard at the start of the war, if they ain’t dead yet, they’re too old for the war game.”

“I did not know that,” Hainey said with impatience. “But I’m not sure what it’s got to do with
me
.”

“Hold your horses, man. I’m getting to it. So the big man invites a new operative, somebody from his old line of work.”

“Another spy?”

Crutchfield nodded. “That’s right. But not a Union spy—a
Rebel
spy. A rather famous one, if you see what I’m saying.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I could name a whole handful of Southern spies, so you’re going to have to be more specific.” He fiddled with the roll of money for a moment before asking, “Is it someone who had a beef with me? Maybe someone from the Macon crowd?”

The informant shook his head and cocked it at the cash. Hainey unspooled another ten and set it down where he’d placed the first.

“It’s nobody you know, I don’t think. But it’s somebody with an agenda. The Rebs don’t want her no more, so she’s got something to prove by bringing you in; and that’s why she got the assignment.”

The captain didn’t hide his confusion. “What do you mean, they don’t want her no more? Pinkerton sent a woman to chase me down?”

“Not just any woman—Belle Boyd.”

“Belle…oh now Jesus Christ in a rain barrel. That’s a tall tale you’re spinning, and I don’t believe it for a second.”

Crutchfield shrugged. “Believe me or don’t believe me, that’s what I heard, my hand to God. This is her first job, so it’s a loaded one.”

“Loaded,” Hainey agreed. “But not with good sense. I’m just baffled,” he said, scratching his head. “And maybe a little insulted, that they send out a woman to bring down a man like me.”

“I wouldn’t take it like that, not yet. Pinkerton doesn’t hire folks as a joke—and he doesn’t hire fools, and he doesn’t throw his operatives away on suicide missions. He wouldn’t have sent her after you if he didn’t think she could bring you in.”

While Hainey pondered this, Simeon stepped in and took another ten.

He set it on the rail, waited for Crutchfield to collect it, and said, “All of that’s real interesting, no doubt. But why don’t you give us a hint about who hired the Pinks in the first place? They wouldn’t send anyone to nab a runaway without being told to, or paid to.”

“You have a point,” he said. “And I don’t know much about the gig, except that there’s a ship called
Clementine
that’s moving supplies—and it’s being hounded by a Negro captain in a bird that’s got no name.”

Hainey bobbed his head slowly up and down, sorting through the important bits and settling on his next words. He lifted the money roll, and unwrapped half its bulk while the eyes of Crutchfield Akers did their best to remain unimpressed.

“You can have this,” Hainey told him, setting the curled stack on its side. “All of it, no problem and no trouble, if you can answer me one more question and answer it true. Except,” he held up a finger. “If it turns out you’ve lied to me, I’ll be back, and I’ll take it back out of your skin. We understand each other?”

“We understand each other,” the informant swore.

“Good. Then I want to know where this
Clementine
is going.”

Crutchfield’s lips stretched into an expression of relief. “Oh good,” he sighed. “I actually know the answer to that one. The bird’s headed to Louisville, but I don’t know why, and I can’t tell you any more precise than that—not for the rest of your roll—because nobody’s told me.” He collected the stack of bills that must’ve counted a couple hundred dollars, and licked the tip of his finger to help him count it. “And I must say, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” Hainey muttered.

He took Simeon by the arm and led him away, speaking quietly. “The bird’s headed to Kentucky, and ain’t that a stinker.”

“Not a Reb state,” Simeon said, as if it were a bright side.

“Not technically, no. But a border state that’s Reb enough to be unwelcoming. Louisville’s up on the river though, practically in Indiana. It’s not the worst news, and not the best news, but it’s news.”

“You think he’s on the level?”

The captain said, “I wouldn’t trust him to sort my laundry for free, but for a stack of green I think he’s solid enough. It’s how he makes his living, and he’s not a young man. If he were full of malarkey, someone would’ve killed him by now.”

“You’re full of sense, sir.”

“Let’s get back to the engineer and see what he’s scouted for us. It’s past midday now—”

“Not by much.”

Hainey said, “No, but I want to clear town sooner rather than later.”

The first mate made a little laugh. “You’re not worried about that Rebel woman, are you?”

The captain didn’t answer immediately, but when he did he said, “I’ve heard about her. I’ve heard a lot about her, mostly in the papers and partly through gossip. As far as I know she’s no dummy, and if half of what’s said about her is true, she’s not afraid to shoot a man if she feels the need.”

They reached the street and turned to the right, strolling towards the service docks and maintaining a casual pace. Hainey continued, “She was just a girl when the war started—maybe sixteen or seventeen, just a baby. But she didn’t have a lick of fear in her, not anywhere. She’s been in prison a few times, been married a few times, and killed a few fellows if they interfered with her. And these days,” he toyed with what he was thinking, then laid it out. “She’s only a little younger than me. Maybe in her forties. A woman who was that much trouble as a girl, well—now she’s had twenty-five years to learn new tricks.”

Simeon was silent.

Hainey said, “I’m not saying we ought to turn tail and run like dogs. I’m just saying that maybe it’s not an insult that she’s been picked to chase us down. Maybe we ought to keep our eyes open.”

“Do you know what she looks like?” Simeon wanted to know, but the captain didn’t have a photograph handy and he wasn’t sure he could pick her out of a crowd, anyway.

He said, “As I’ve heard it, she’s not much to look at—but she’s got a figure you’d notice if you were blind and ninety.”

“Not much to look at?”

“Yeah. It’s been said,” the captain mumbled, lowering his voice as they passed a pair of men cleaning a set of six-shooters in front of a saloon. “That she was young once, but never beautiful.”

“Sons of bitches, up there in Chicago,” the first mate said, pulling tobacco out of his pocket as if he’d only just remembered he had it. He flipped a paper loose with his thumb and started to roll a cigarette. “Can’t even send a pretty woman after us.”

Hainey didn’t answer because further discussion might’ve made him look paranoid, or weak. Simeon came from another place with its own set of problems, to be sure; but he wouldn’t have understood, maybe—how nothing on earth summoned a mob with a noose or a spray of bullets quite like a lady with an accent, and a problem with the way she’s been looked at.

Even a look, misinterpreted or even imagined.

And it had been decades since Croggon Beauregard Hainey had been a young man in a prison, accused of incorrect things and condemned to die; but that didn’t make the memory of it any easier to ignore or erase. So yes, all insistence to the contrary—and with the Rattler, and his men, and a full complement of guns stashed across his formidable body—he was more than a little concerned about a Southern woman with something to prove.

At that moment, a shy head ducked around the corner where Crutchfield stood on a stoop and conducted business. It was the same boy Hainey had threatened the night before, and he looked no less threatened to be standing in front of the captain once again.

“Sir?” he said, stopping both men.

Hainey snapped out of his reverie enough to ask, “What is it?”

“Sir, you have a telegram. It’s from Tacoma.”

The captain took the telegram, read it once, then read it again, and then he declared, “Well I’ll be damned.”

“What’s it say?” Simeon asked, even as he scanned it over Hainey’s shoulder. Before the captain could answer, Simeon had a new question. “What the hell does that mean? That’s about the strangest message I ever heard of. Do you know what it’s all about?”

FREE CROW CARRIES DAMNABLE MADAM CORPSE STOP WORD IN THE CLOUDS SAYS OSSIAN STEEN REQUIRES JEWELRY FOR WEAPON STOP SANATORIUM IS COVER FOR WEAPONS PLANT NO FURTHER WORD TO BE HAD STOP YOU OWE ME ONE STOP AC

Hainey’s scarred face split into a smile. “Cly, you bastard. All right, I owe you one.”

“Cly? The captain?”

“That’s his initials there at the end. He’s the one who sent it,” he confirmed.

Simeon shook his head and said, “But what’s he’s talking about?”

And the captain replied, “I don’t know who this Steen fellow is, but the rest of it’s given me something to think about, sure enough.”

“Can you think and steal a ship at the same time?” the first mate asked.

“I could knit a sweater and steal a ship at the same time, and don’t you josh me about it. Come on. Let’s grab the coach, get the Rattler ready, and see what Lamar’s been up to. We’ve got a
Valkyrie
to ride.”

MARIA ISABELLA BOYD

6

She arrived at Jefferson City in the near-light hours of the morning; but since she’d stolen most of a night’s sleep inside the
Cherokee Rose
, she grabbed an early breakfast of oatmeal and toast—and then, when the hour was more reasonable, she called upon Algernon Rice.

According to the helpful folder of paperwork Maria carried, Mr. Rice could be found in an office at the center of town, half a dozen blocks from the city’s passenger docks. In the heart of the city the streets were bumpy with bricks and the buildings were built three, sometimes four stories tall with tasteful trim components and neatly lettered advertisements. Groceries were nestled against law offices and apothecaries, and a veterinarian’s facility was planted between a carriage-house and a billiards hall.

And at the street corner named in her folder, she found a small office with a white painted sign that declared in black lettering, “Mr. Algernon T. Rice, Private Investigator, Pinkerton National Detective Agency (Jefferson City Branch).”

On the other side of the door she found an empty receptionist’s desk; and beyond that desk in a secondary room, she located Mr. Rice.

“Please pardon the receptionist,” he said. “We don’t actually have one right now. But won’t you come inside, and have a seat? I understand this is your first outing as a Pinkerton operative.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she told him, and when he stood to greet her she allowed him to take her hand before she positioned herself delicately on the edge of the high-backed chair that faced his desk.

Algernon Rice was a slender, pale man who looked quite villainous except for the jaunty orange handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. His wide, narrow, precisely curled and waxed mustache was so black it looked blue in the light; and beneath the rim of his matching bowler hat, his sideburns were likewise dark. Except for the orange triangle, every visible article of his clothing was also funereal in design and color.

But his voice was cultured and polite, and he conducted himself in a gentlemanly fashion, so Maria opted to assume the best and proceed accordingly.

She said, “I’ve just arrived from Chicago and I understand I must now make my way to St. Louis. Your name was presented as a contact, and I hope this means that you can help me arrange a coach or a carriage, or possibly a train.”

“Yes and no—which is to say, I won’t give you anything horse-powered or rail-running, but I can definitely see you to your destination. However, there’s been a change of plans. I received a telegram first thing this morning from a contact in Kansas City.”

“Kansas City? Isn’t that west of here?”

“Yes, by a hundred and fifty miles,” he confirmed. “It would seem that your quarry has slowed, and that the nefarious captain is stranded. And I’m afraid that’s the good news.”

She furrowed her brow and said, “I beg your pardon?”

To which he replied, “We have an informant of sorts—an affiliate, we should say instead. Frankly, it’d be a disservice to call him anything more than a degenerate drunk, but he likes to make himself useful.”

“To Pinkerton?”

“To anyone with a wad of cash. Crutchfield’s not terribly discriminate, but he’s usually on top of things so I fear we’re forced to trust him. And the bad news is, Croggon Hainey knows you’re coming. We would’ve preferred to keep a lid on that, but there’s nothing to be done about it now except slip in faster than he expects to meet you.”

She shook her head slowly and asked, “But how would he know I’m coming?”

“It’s as I said, our informant will talk to anyone with the cash to buy his time, and he has ears bigger than wagon wheels. He won’t admit that he’s the reason word is getting around, but he doesn’t have to.” He sighed, and folded his hands on the desk. “Ma’am, I’m bound to honor my obligations to the Chicago office, you understand, but I also feel obligated to voice a bit of objection to this matter. I think it’s an unkind, untoward thing to send a lady after a criminal like Hainey—”

Maria cut him off with a delicate sweep of her hand, saying, “Mr. Rice, I appreciate your concern but I assure you, it’s unnecessary. I’ve received plenty of warnings, tongue-waggings, and outright prohibitions since agreeing to work for Mr. Pinkerton, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to skip the one you’re preparing to deliver and get right to work. So if you’re not planning to take me to Kansas City by horse, buggy, or rail, what precisely does that leave—except for another dirigible?”

He smiled widely, spreading his thin lips and showing no sign of teeth. “As you wish. And the transportation in question is…shall we say…dirigible-
like
. It’s an experimental craft, barely large enough to support two passengers, I won’t lie to you there. It’ll be cramped, but the trip will be fairly brief.”

“To cover one hundred and fifty miles?”

“Oh yes. If we leave now, we’ll be able to catch a late lunch in Kansas City, if you’re so inclined. Though…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to presume…”

She told him, “You can presume anything you like if you can get me to Kansas City by lunchtime.” She rose from her chair, collected her large and small bags, and stood prepared to leave until he likewise stood.

“I can hardly argue with
that
. We might have a bit of a trick getting your luggage aboard, but we’ll see what we can manage. This way,” he said, opening his arm and letting her lead the way around the corner, into a hallway where a tall set of narrow stairs led up to another floor.

“Up…upstairs?”

“That’s right. The
Flying Fish
is upstairs, on the roof. She’s a little too small to sit comfortably at the passenger docks; if I left her there, I would’ve simply met you at the gate rather than compelling you to find your way to my office. But I’ve constructed a landing pad of sorts, and I keep her lashed to the building where she’s available at a moment’s notice.”

He reached out to take Maria’s heavier bag, and she allowed him to tote it as she led the way up the steps. She asked, “Is that typically necessary? To have a small airship at the ready?”

“Necessary?” He shrugged. “I couldn’t swear to its absolute essentialness, but I can tell you that it’s mighty convenient. Like now, for example. If I didn’t have a machine like the
Fish
, then I’d be forced to assign you to a train, or possibly bribe your way onto a cargo dirigible heading further west. There aren’t any passenger trips between here and Kansas City, you understand.”

“I was unaware of that,” she said, reaching the top of the stairs and turning on the landing to scale the next flight.

“Yes, well. We may be the capital, but we’re by no means the biggest urban area within the state. Or within the region, heaven knows,” he added as an afterthought.

Maria paused, looked back at him, and he urged her onward. “It’s only the next flight up. Here,” he said. At the top of the next flight there was a trap door in the ceiling. Algernon Rice gave the latch a tug and a shove, and a rolling stairway extended, sliding down to meet the floor.

He offered Maria his hand and she took it as a matter of politeness and familiarity, not because she particularly needed the assistance in climbing the stairs without a rail. But she’d learned the long way that it was easier to let men feel useful, so she rested her fingers atop his until she had cleared the portal and stood upon the roof—next to an elaborate little machine that must have been the
Flying Fish
.

“As you can see,” he said, “she isn’t made for comfort.”

Maria said slowly, “No… I can see she’s made for one man’s convenience. It looks rather like…” she hunted for a comparison, and finally settled upon, “A wooden kite, strapped to a hydrogen sack.”

Algernon Rice’s smile finally cracked enough to show a hint of even, white teeth when he said, “That’s not an altogether unfair assessment. Come, let me show you. We’ll have to strap your belongings under the seat for the sake of balance—and speaking of the seat, it’s a single bench and we’ll have to make the best of sharing.”

“That’s fine,” she said, and she meant it, but she wasn’t really listening to him. She was examining the
Fish
.

The
Fish
could best be described as a personal-sized dirigible, affixed snugly to an undercarriage made of a light, unfinished wood frame that was open to the elements—though somewhat shielded by the bulbous balloon that held it aloft. The balloon was reinforced with a frame that could’ve been wicker, or some other light, resilient material; and it was fuller at its front than at the rear.

“What a remarkable machine,” she said.

Algernon Rice took her large bag and a length of hemp rope, and he began to tie it into place. “It’s small and light, but the speeds it can reach when the tanks are fired…well, I might have to ask you to hang onto your hat. They don’t hold much of a burning capacity, really, because it usually isn’t required. I’ll refuel in Kansas City, at the service docks, and make my way back home by bedtime.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she murmured, and came to stand behind him to watch him work. When they were both satisfied that her bag was secure, they withdrew to the passenger compartment and Mr. Rice looked away while Maria organized her fluffy, rustling dress into a ladylike position inside the little wooden frame.

Then he slung a satchel over his suit which, he explained, contained basic repairing tools and emergency supplies, “Just in case,” and he made some adjustments to the rear booster tanks—neither one of which was any larger than a dog. Finally, he climbed onto the seat beside her and showed her where best to hold on, for safety’s sake. He donned a pair of aviator’s protective glasses and handed Maria a secondary pair, which she could scarcely fit over her hat and onto her face.

While she adjusted herself, he told her, “I hope you’re not easily sickened by flight or other travel, and if you have any sensitivities to height or motion, I’d advise you to brace your feet on the bar below and refrain from looking down.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she assured him and indeed, she braced her feet on the solid dowel while she gripped the frame’s side.

With the pump of a pedal and the turn of a crank, a hissing fuss became a sparking whoosh, and in only a moment, the
Flying Fish
scooted off her moorings and hobbled up into the sky.

The experience was altogether different from flying on the
Cherokee Rose
, with its accommodating seats and its heavy tanks, its lavatory and galley. Every jostle of every air current tapped at the undercarriage and sent it swinging ever so slightly, in a new direction every moment or two. It was a perilous feeling, being vulnerable to insects, birds, and the very real possibility of toppling off the bench and into the sky—especially as the craft climbed higher, and crested the last of the buildings, passing the edge of the town and puttering westward over the plains.

Algernon Rice spoke loudly enough to make himself heard over the pattering rumble of the engines and the wind, “I ought to have warned you, it feels like a rickety ride, but we’re quite safe.”

“Quite safe?” she asked, determined that it should come out as a formal question, and not as a squeak.

“Quite safe indeed. And I hope you’re warm enough. I also should have warned that it’s cooler up here, the higher we fly. Is your cloak keeping you satisfactorily comfortable?” he asked.

She lied, because telling the truth would neither change nor fix the situation. “It’s fine. It keeps me warm in Illinois, and it’s managing the worst of the wind up here.” But in truth, the dragging rush of the air was a fiendish thing with pointed fingers that wormed between every crease, crevice, and buttonhole to cool her skin with a dreadful determination. She fervently wished for another hat, something that would cover her ears more fully, even if it crushed her hair and looked appalling; but her only other clothing was stashed below, and retrieving it would only slow the mission, which was an unacceptable cost.

So all the way to Kansas City, in the hours over the winter-chilled plains, she held her hat firmly onto her head with one hand and gripped the railway with the other.

They chatted only a little, for the ambient noise was sometimes deafening, and Maria’s entire face felt utterly frozen within the first hour. If she parted her lips her teeth only chattered and stung with the cold air rushing against them, so instead she huddled silently, sometimes leaning against the firm, confident form of Algernon Rice—who appeared to be glad to have her close, though he made no unwelcome advances.

After what felt like eternity and a day, but was surely no more than half a dozen hours, Kansas City sprouted out of the plains. Buildings of various heights were scattered, and even at the
Fish
’s altitude Maria could tell the blocks apart, guessing which neighborhoods were cleanest and which ones were best avoided by respectable people. The streets split, forked, and ran in a crooked grid, sprawling across the ground in a life-sized map that Maria found more fascinating than when she’d spied Jefferson City from the
Cherokee Rose
. She was closer to the world this way—even chilled to the bone, with skin pinkly chapped and hands numb with winter.

She looked down past her feet, and the bar around which she’d wrapped her toes. She watched the land draw up close as the
Fish
drew down low; and she saw the commercial dirigibles lined up, affixed to pipework docks that were embedded in the earth with roots as deep as an oak.

There came a clank and a soft bounce, then a harder one. The
Fish
settled into a slot beside an enormous craft painted with a freight company’s logo, and a service yard hand stepped up with a length of chain and a lobster clasp—though the young man didn’t know where to affix it.

“I’ll handle that, my boy,” Algernon Rice announced as he turned a crank to cut the engines. He dismounted from the bench and took the claw, fastening it to the exposed mainshaft that ran the length of the undercarriage.