Amberlough(69)

But Cyril stood too, and stopped her from leaving with a hand on her wrist. Not hard, not closed, but enough to keep her from stepping away. “Cordelia.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“I don’t want to know anything.” He relished her surprise, her relief. It was nice to let someone’s secrets lie; under Ospie supervision, it wasn’t always as easy as this. “I really don’t. But—”

Her eyes narrowed, and she tried to step back. Now, he did close his hand. The bones of her wrist pressed against his fingers.

“But what?” she snapped, drawing her wrap close.

“I’m going to need those earrings.”

“You’re gonna need a new pair of oysters if you don’t let me go.”

“Cordelia,” he said again, lifting her wrist and holding it in front of his face, beseeching. “I need those earrings or I’m scratched.”

She paused, searching his face. Her eyes were only slightly darker than the citrines, but much deeper, crackling with intricate flaws.

“Does it got anything to do with me?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Anybody gonna end up in trouble?”

“No one you know.”

That satisfied her. She pulled free from Cyril’s loosened grip and unclasped the earrings, one and then the other. Cyril held his palm up to receive them. The gold was still warm from her skin.

*

On his way home, Cyril stopped into the telegraph office to send a message to Müller. A call would have given the deputy commissioner a chance to ask questions. A telegram gave him only two options: come, or stay away. And Cyril left the message deliberately cryptic, with an enticing tone of urgency.

In his flat, he ran a bath, sank into the tub, and propped his feet up on the taps. Despite the ramifications of his actions—chief among which was smoothing the Ospies’ path to dominance in Amberlough—he felt a cruel frisson of success at the noose he had prepared for Müller. It was tight, and clean, and excellent work. He’d saved himself. And what’s more, he’d done it elegantly.

Would do it. Don’t get ahead of yourself, DePaul.

It felt good to know he still had it—that sharp, fast thinking, unrestrained by scruples or emotion. The hard flint Central searched for in its agents. Tatié hadn’t broken him, and neither had the unionists. He was still good at what he did, even if he wasn’t doing it for the right people.

No, he reminded himself. He was doing it for the only people who mattered now. For himself, and for Aristide.

Then, there was the matter of Cordelia turning up with Minna Keeler’s stolen earrings. She had probably told the truth, about receiving the earrings as a gift. She couldn’t afford them, even secondhand. But from whom? I knew she looked familiar. He turned that over, examining it. Sofie’s picture had been all over the papers. She must have given Cordelia the jewels; he was sure of it. As payment? For what? Whatever the bargain, someone had introduced them. And Cyril knew exactly who. Ari had been moving refugees for months.

Sinking below the surface of the water, Cyril held his breath until his heart slowed. He’d deal with Aristide later. For now, he wasn’t going to let anything dampen his victory over Müller.

Freshly scrubbed and buttoned into well-brushed evening wear, Cyril hopped a streetcar and held the rail for a few blocks. The tails of his evening coat whipped behind him. At Orchard Street he let go and dropped easily back to the pavement, quickstepping until he shook the momentum of the trolley.

Müller was waiting for him in the Kelly Club, tucked into a corner booth with his back to the wall. “What do you want?” His face was sour, the glass of port in front of him untouched.

“Cold veal and pickle,” said Cyril decisively. “You? It’s order from the bar here, right?”

“Don’t get cheeky, DePaul. This day’s been a beast and I’m in no mood.”

Cyril put his fingertips to his chin. “Really? Ragtaggers giving you more trouble than you care for? Or is it something closer to home?”

Müller sighed, his nostrils flaring. “Taphir Emerson was released yesterday afternoon, by some damn constable who wouldn’t know from. ‘A mix-up with the paperwork,’ they tell me. And now he’s disappeared like an elver into jelly.”

Cyril scented Aristide’s perfumed hand in this. However angry he might be about Ari facilitating Cordelia’s latest foray into lawlessness, Cyril still thanked Ari for sticking this sharp pin in Müller’s ass—the last of many. The one that, along with some elegant blackmail, might change his mind about the Ospies.

“Too bad,” said Cyril. “And you have no idea where to look?”

“Oh, I have ideas,” said Müller. “But getting the force to follow them is like dragging a ram at the end of a rope. It’s not going to happen. And don’t say you can offer me a better position. I told you, I won’t—what are those?”

Cyril had taken the earrings from his pocket and was dangling them over the candle at the center of the table. Their facets winked and flared in the wavering light.

“Pendeloque-cut citrines, set in yellow gold with diamonds—that’s the description in the insurance claim made by Minna Keeler, following a recent robbery. A robbery accomplished during the kidnapping of her eldest daughter.”