Katherine O’Neal (51 page)

“I see many people. Am I to be expected to
remember every person who comes to my door seeking counsel?”

At the wave of Madame’s hand, Sander sat down
across the table. “A long time ago, when I was just a boy, you told
my father what he must do in order to make his fortune. He followed
your advice, and I’m now wealthy beyond my expectations.”

“Naturally.”

“But, Madame, I remember what it was like to
be poor. I can still smell the stench of poverty in my nostrils. I
don’t ever want to be poor again. I
can’t
be. Do you
understand?”

“What do you want with me?”

“You warned my father about me. Something I
was to look out for when I was grown. You told him never to tell
anyone but me. I’ve kept the secret all this time. But I have to
know. It’s haunted me all these years. I
must
know what it
means.”

“What was it I told him then?”

He lowered his voice and leaned closer to her
over the table. “That a newspaper could bring about my
downfall.”

Saranda had to fight to keep from glancing
toward the door of the other room, where Mace and Stubbs had
closeted themselves. It was too good to be true. In their wildest
dreams, they would never have asked for such a gift.

As her shock receded, the implications began
to register. Madame Zorina—the
real
Madame Zorina—had years
ago warned Sander’s father that Sander’s downfall could come about
through a newspaper. It made her feel that this was all part of
some preordained destiny. Yet at the same time, it staggered her.
How had she known?

“I never forgot your prediction. Even when it
made no sense. I wasn’t interested in newspapers. I made my money
with railroads, factories, real estate. But then they started using
this newspaper, the
Globe-Journal
, against me. Slandering
all my associates. Ruining them. Implying ugly things about me. I
knew I’d be next. And I knew your prediction was coming true. A
newspaper
was
going to be the ruin of me. But I outfoxed
them. I arranged to take over the paper.”

“By illegal means?” she asked softly.

“I had to do anything I could to get it,
don’t you see? Or the rest of your prediction would come true.”

Saranda understood for the first time why
McLeod had gone to the lengths he had. He’d murdered, lied, had
them pursued like dogs, and was willing that Saranda be hanged, all
to prevent this prophecy from coming true. Thinking on her feet,
she seized the opportunity.

“No, no, no,” she told him. “You
misunderstood. I said
owning
a newspaper would be your
downfall.”

Sander’s face blanched beneath the red
whiskers. “Owning?” She could see the panic in his eyes. “Holy God!
I thought you meant—you mean—I was wrong all these years? Madame
Zorina, you
must
help me! What can I do?”

“Let’s see what the cards have to say, shall
we? I believe I used the cards with your father, no?”

He nodded. Saranda marveled at the boyish
trust with which he shuffled the cards and watched as she laid out
the pattern. She’d never guess this was the same Sander McLeod
who’d ordered her starved in prison and had arranged to tell her
Mace was dead.

Stubbs had bought the tarot cards the day
before. She’d spent part of the two days rubbing them in oil and
crushing them beneath her shoes, trying to make them look as if
they’d been used for years. In the candlelight, it was a believable
facsimile.

She turned over the cards one by one, trying
to ignore the images that flashed through her mind at the sight of
them. The reading had been carefully discussed ahead of time. Yet
Saranda was overcome with a sense of rushing water, of destruction.
She shook her head to clear it and proceeded with the job at
hand.

“The answer is simple. You must sell this
newspaper.”

“I can’t do that. I had specific reasons for
acquiring that paper.”

“Yes, I can see that. Your enemy is here.”
She pointed to a card. “He is not of your country. He comes from
across the seas. He is a sportsman, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Perhaps he shoots arrows?”

“His name is Archer.”

“Ah. But he is not what he seems. You must
not sell to this man. He is for you a dangerous personage. But it
is because of him that you must sell the newspaper. While you hold
on to it, this man has the power to destroy you.”

“But how can I sell? Who would I sell
to?”

“I know only that he will seek you out. Then
it is for you to decide.”

“Madame Zorina, you don’t understand—”

“No, my son, it is
you
who does not
understand. If you do not sell this newspaper, your fortune and
everything you have worked for will collapse. There is nothing that
can be done about this. It is preordained.”

“Preordained? How?”

She pointed to a card. “It will take the form
of three natural disasters. This is how you will know I speak the
truth. You own a zinc mine in Bolivia, I believe?”

“Yes. It’s my most productive mine. It nets
me—”

“First an earthquake will bury your mine so
that it cannot be mined again for fifty years. You own a hotel in
Chicago, do you not? A fire will burn down this hotel. And your
farmland in this country?”

“I own some of the richest farmland in
Pennsylvania.”

“Yes, but if you do not listen to Madame
Zorina, a terrible flood will ravage this land.”

“But how can this happen just because I don’t
sell the
Globe?
What you’re asking is too much. If I give up
the newspaper, I could lose everything else, my whole political
base.
With
the newspaper—”

“You will be ruined. But without the
newspaper, you stand a chance of continued success and happiness.
Madame Zorina speaks only of what the guides reveal to her. The
rest is up to you.”

He would have asked her more, but she
dismissed him, claiming fatigue. When he’d gone, the men came out
of the bedroom. Stubbs turned up the gas lamps and went about
blowing out candles. Mace came over and hugged Saranda, lifting her
off her feet.

“You were splendid! I believed you
myself.”

When he put her down, she swayed a little on
her feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m afraid it tired me out more
than I’d realized. I shall be fine, though. Don’t worry about
me.”

“Then it’s on to the next step. Stubbs,
you’re the buyer. Get your disguise ready and have everything set
to go day after tomorrow. And don’t forget to wear gloves to hide
your hands.”

Stubbs frowned at him skeptically. “You don’t
really think he’s going to sell to the first buyer, do you?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

“Well, I’ll be going,” Stubbs said, moving
toward the door.

“Oh, Stubbs,” Mace called.

When he turned to face him, Mace held out his
hand expectantly. “The thousand dollars?”

“What thousand dollars?”

“The thousand McLeod bribed you with to let
him in.” Mace wiggled his fingers, and Stubbs looked dejected.

“How’d you know?”

“Don’t ask,” said Saranda. “He knows
everything.”

Reluctantly, Stubbs turned over the money.
Mace took half and handed the rest back. “Try that again, and
you’re out on your bloody ear.”

“Well, you can’t blame a fellow for trying,”
he said, and left with a salute of thanks.

“Looks as if we’ll dine in style for a
change,” Mace said when he’d gone.

“Typical con men. Spending the take on the
celebration.”

He came close and turned her face to him,
peering at her intently. “
Are
you all right? You seem a bit
quiet. Not upset by seeing Sander, were you?”

“It isn’t that,” she told him. “It’s just the
feeling I got during the reading.”

“What’s that, love?”

“The most dreadful feeling of doom. As if
something awful is going to happen. The only thing is, I couldn’t
tell if it was going to happen to McLeod”—she lifted her eyes to
his face—“or to us.”

“Are you out of your ruddy mind?” Lance
cried, pacing the corner office with the sweeping view of Park Row
that had once belonged to his brother.

McLeod sat at the corner of the desk. “Stop
stomping, will you? And keep your voice down. Do you want everyone
to know my business?”

Lance stopped pacing and stared at him.
“You’re going to throw everything away because a fortune-teller
told you to?”

“I already explained. She’s not just any
fortune-teller. She’s—”

“
It’s a flam!”

“What do you mean, a flam?”

“A con. Saranda Sherwin’s mother was a
fortune-teller!”

“Are you implying I’m capable of being
conned? I tell you, my father saw her years ago. He described her
to me. She
is
Madame Zorina.”

“If she is, she’s in on the flam.”

“I have personal proof that Madame Zorina’s
the genuine article. I don’t know where you’d get such a
preposterous idea.”

“Because your old nemesis Archer is the one
who’s flamming you.”

“Impossible. For one thing, how could he get
to Madame Zorina so quickly?”

“Any ruddy number of ways. What do you know
about this woman, eh? Don’t you think it’s just the slightest bit
suspicious that she’s shown up here, just at this time? And how is
it the announcement of her arrival appeared only in the
Globe-Journal
and nowhere else? Did you approve the story? I
sure as hell didn’t. So where in the bleedin’ blazes did it come
from, I ask you?”

“How should I know? I don’t check every story
that goes in the paper. That’s what I hired you for.”

“You can bloody well be sure I’ll check
everything from now on.”

“She told me specifics, made predictions no
one in their right mind would make. It would be too easy to be
discovered as a fraud if the predictions don’t come to pass.”

“Did she tell you
when
they’d
happen?”

“No.”

“You’re being burned, is why.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because Archer’s involved, I’m sure.”

“Archer’s a—”

“
Archer,”
Lance interrupted, “is one
of the greatest flimflam artists who ever walked this bloomin’
earth.”

Sander sat up straighter, interested now.
“How do you know that?”

“Because Archer’s me brother.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. He
peered at Lance’s face, as if wondering why he hadn’t seen the
resemblance before. “Your—”

“Mace Blackwood’s the name. Me own big
brother.”

McLeod stood, his face suffused with red.
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“There’s such a thing as family loyalty. But
not when he’s makin’ a ruddy fool o’ you. He made a fool of
everyone in this city, flammed them all for three bloody
years.”

“Archer... a con man?”

“That’s the long and short of it, mate. But
not just any con man. The best there is.”

Sander circled the room, scratching his
whiskers thoughtfully. “Madame Zorina
said
he wasn’t what he
appeared to be—”

“You’re being hustled, you bloody fool!”

McLeod thought for a full minute. “Just in
case, let’s break the story. We’ll expose Archer for who he really
is. Get the public fighting mad.”

Lance grinned. “It’ll be me pleasure.”

When McLeod had gone, Lance sat back in his
brother’s chair and put his feet on the desk. Leaning back, he
placed his hands behind his head and smiled. “I know you’re behind
this, brother. But you’re sure as bleedin’ hell not going to get
away with it. Not this time.”

* * *

The next morning, the
Globe-Journal
was delivered with their breakfast. Saranda took it from the tray
and was about to hand it over when the headline caught her eye.

“Oh, my God.”

“What is it?”

She swallowed, wondering if there was any way
to avoid showing it to him. He came closer, and she looked up at
him, wishing she could hide the paper behind her back and ask him
not to read it.

“Bad news?” he asked.

“The worst.”

He took the paper from her and read the
headlines.

FRAUD EXPOSED

NEWSPAPER DECEIVED

Confidence Man Posed as Editor for Three Years

Public Irate

He read the story as she watched him. She
could see the flash of fury, then a hardening of his features as he
steeled himself beneath the onslaught of facts and lies. By the
time he’d finished, he’d wiped his face blank of any emotion.
“Lance’s doing, no doubt.”

“Mace, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was bound to happen sooner
or later.”

“You expected this?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Then what are you upset about?”

“Read the bloody article. He makes me sound
like a cheap grifter. Doesn’t even mention the Oxford scam. Or the
job we pulled against the Lancashires. That was a mastery of
planning.”

She relaxed. “Ah! So it’s professional pride
that’s got your back up.”

“A more poorly written piece of rubbish I’ve
never seen. Most of the facts are wrong. If I were still editor,
these table scrapings wouldn’t even have made the paper. And if I’d
written
it— What are you laughing about?”

She put her arms about his neck and kissed
him on the lips. “You. Worrying about your reputation. Here I
thought you’d be devastated by having your cover blown, and the
only thing you’re concerned with is that you’ve been made to look
like an
inept
confidence man.”

He hugged her tight. “Just wait, Princess.
When we get that paper back, I’m going to write an article that
will not only make us look like the two greatest flam artists that
ever lived, it will make bloody heroes of us in the same stroke.
Just wait till the irate people of New York find out how it was
confidence artists who used their skills—”