Amberlough(43)

The fine grain of Lillian’s letterhead lay against the Ospie envelope like silk against rough skin. He ran his thumb over the lines of his nephew’s drawing, fighting sudden apprehension.

They would be fine. They were far away. Lillian was high-ranking and very, very good at what she did. They wouldn’t approach her. And if they dared, she would maneuver neatly out of the trap. She had never gotten in trouble when they were children, even when she was naughty. It was always Cyril who ended up locked in his room without his supper, depending on Lillian to sneak him some.

Sighing, he set aside her letter and picked up his whiskey. After a drink, he tore the Ospie envelope open: fast, like removing a sticking plaster from a healing wound.

Another envelope fell out, this one soft and cream-colored, sealed with a gold stamp. It was wrapped in a piece of onionskin paper, spidery with writing. Cyril unfolded the note and read it through, then opened the second envelope.

It contained a heavy piece of card stock, velvety smooth and embossed with more gold. The Honorable Baroness I Fa requested the honor of his presence at a musical evening featuring the acclaimed Asunan contralto Ms. Srai Sin.

The party was in three days. The instructions said Cyril’s reply had gone out last week; of course he would attend. Deputy Police Commissioner Alex Müller’s wife was an intimate friend of the baroness. Müller would likely be accompanying her to the soiree.

Van der Joost’s people were good at what they did; there was no denying. Cyril didn’t have anyone on Maxine Müller. He was trying to run a network without a stable of agents, and he couldn’t be everywhere all the time. But it still grated that the Ospies had scooped him on this one.

There was bad blood between Müller and Commissioner Taormino—the latter had gone from deputy chief of police in the third precinct straight to her current position, crushing Müller in the citywide election; there were rumblings of graft and underhanded favors. More importantly, Müller’s wife was a close friend to expatriate nobility. The Ospies were nationalist to an ugly fault; connections to foreigners would not behoove anyone once Acherby took power. In addition, the baroness was a known associate of one Aristide Makricosta.

Müller was a straitlaced policeman, so bribery was out. But if he could be won over to the Ospie cause, by persuasive argument or some less pleasant means, he could be controlled through his wife’s close friendship with an undesirable alien.

The record finished playing. Cyril set aside his correspondence and covered his face with his hand, listening to the hiss of the gramophone needle on ungrooved shellac.





CHAPTER

TWELVE

Cordelia had just arrived in her dressing room and sat down to supper when Malcolm barged in without knocking. She ought to put a lock on the door if he was going to keep this up.

Spinning around in her makeup chair, she faced him and demanded, “What do you want?”

“Smells like an Asunan flophouse in here.”

Cordelia reached back for one of her spicy pork skewers and bit off a mouthful of juicy meat, grilled crispy on the outside and rubbed with garlic and hot peppers. She chewed slowly, waiting for him to lay out whatever was bruising him.

“Telephone call for you,” he said. “In my office.”

She swallowed the pork and got up, licking her fingers clean. Malcolm followed her down the hall, needling her like a Market Street heckler. “What makes you think you can give out my office line to your johns?”

“Who said he was a john? When have you known me to hire out?”

“I know you done it.”

“And you know I ain’t doin’ it now.” She shoved him aside.

“How am I supposed to?” he demanded. “How am I supposed to know you ain’t been taking three bits a jockey ever since I picked you up?”

“You didn’t pick me up,” she spat, bracing herself across the entrance to his office. “You begged for me.” And then she slammed the door in his face and shot the bolt home. Because of course he had a lock.

“Delia!” His fist came down against the wood and made it rattle. “Delia, damnation! Open the rotten door!”

She sat in his chair: a rolling, swiveling throne of ripped leather that stank of old civet cologne and stale cigarettes. Drawing her feet underneath her rear, she picked up the earpiece of the telephone and leaned in to speak.

“Hello?”

“Miss Lehane?”

“Cyril,” she crooned, drawing out the “l” with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Who was that character that picked up the ’phone? I couldn’t tell if he was your husband, or a tight-fisted landlord.”

“Neither,” she said. “You’re lucky he didn’t hang up on you.”

“He did; I called back. Twice.”

She laughed into the mouthpiece, glad he couldn’t smell the garlic on her breath. “Sorry about that. He’s my boss.”

“This is your work exchange? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” she said, “it’s all right. I gave it to you.” Then, pulling a face, she admitted, “I ain’t got a telephone at home.” Now he knew that, she might as well slip back into the cant.