Of Grave Concern (19 page)

35

Potete led me to a room across the hall from the courtroom that was normally used for attorneys to consult with their clients. The door was closed, and he paused before opening it.

“I'm sorry,” he said. He seemed strangely sober.

“Oh, I was expecting this day,” I said. “Not so soon, perhaps, but eventually. How'd he find me?”

“I wired Chicago to ask about this Sylvestre fellow you had mentioned, hoping that it might prove useful,” Potete said. “But Potter Palmer's spies must be everywhere, because Armbruster came nearly at once. So it is all my fault.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” I said. “This is my fault. It's my mess. I'll face the music.”

Potete nodded.

He opened the door, and I stepped inside.

Armbruster was standing at the window, looking out, his hands clasped behind his back. The sun was so bright outside that he was just a silhouette framed in the glass.

“Close the door,” he said.

I gently shut the door behind me.

There was no furniture in the room except a wooden desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. On the desk was an inkwell and pen.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Wylde.”

I sat down on my side of the table.

“Do you know why I'm here?” he asked.

“Potter Palmer sent you.”

“That's right,” he said.

“You're Mr. Palmer's . . . troubleshooter.”

“That's right,” he said. “I fix problems for him. And I'm here to fix a problem called ‘Ophelia Wylde.'”

Then he turned, pushed his hat back to the crown of his head, and I saw his face. He was balding, and his skin was so white, it didn't look like he'd ever spent a day in the sun. His eyes stared at me through a pair of pince-nez glasses, which perched on the bridge of his nose.

“How much will it take to fix this problem?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How much?” he asked, placing his hands on the table and leaning forward. “Don't be coy. You must have a figure in mind. What Mr. Palmer wishes is for no embarrassment to come to him or to Mrs. Palmer. For that, he is prepared to buy your silence. If you agree never to speak of your association with Potter Palmer, we are prepared to pay you one thousand dollars.”

I laughed. I couldn't help myself.

“Very well,” he said. “Three thousand.”

“Oh, my.” I was struggling to catch my breath. “This is too much.”

“Five thousand,” Armbruster said, fuming. “But that is the absolute limit. And you must sign the agreement now.”

He removed a legal-looking paper from his coat pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. He showed me where to sign, and I was still giggling as I took the pen, dipped it in ink, and scribbled my name at the bottom.

“Very good,” he said, whisking the document away, folding it, and tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit. Then he removed a fat envelope from another pocket and counted out five thousand dollars in National Gold Bank Notes.

Then he tipped his hat and left, leaving the door open behind him.

I picked up the bills, then realized I had no pockets.

Calder appeared in the doorway.

“What was that all about?”

“I can't really tell you,” I said, shoving the bills in his hands. “Here, put this in your pocket before I lose it.”

“What in the world?”

“Don't let me spend it,” I said. “Most of it is going to pay a debt in Cincinnati. What's left over—well, that I can spend. Just for the essentials, for me and Eddie.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

He shoved the money in his pocket.

“There's another train this afternoon,” he said. “Going west.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You'll be wanting to leave now, I reckon,” he said. “Maybe you'll want to stay for the service in the morning on Gospel Ridge. The Russian girl's family has come to claim her body, but it didn't seem right to send her off without a service. So Doc McCarty organized it. He said they don't speak much English, but they worked it out.”

“That's nice,” I said. “I'll stay for that.”

Calder nodded.

“You know, we made a pretty good team.”

“We did,” Calder said.

“There could be some advantage to our teaming up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Partners,” I said. “A bounty hunter and a medium who talks to the dead. Murder, a specialty. Special rates for demons and ancient evils.”

“Detectives,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked. “I can see the sign now, maybe over an office near Doc McCarty's place on North Front. Calder and Wylde, Consulting Detectives—what do you think?”

“We could try it,” he allowed. “On a month-to-month basis.”

“Of course,” I said. “Because I'm still headed west. Eventually. Then it's settled.”

We shook hands.

Calder allowed himself a smile.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “But I have to get out of these awful clothes first.”

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-8193-7

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First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2013