Airship Hunters (21 page)

The two sat on the porch of Burnley’s boarding house. Cabot had brought the bottle, as he had occasionally done in the past. They could pass the time in rocking chairs in this way only after dark, when Burnley’s landlady would not complain about the bad reputation her house might receive from passersby witnessing men openly drinking spirits at her front door.

Cabot had remained on the platform between train cars for more than an hour. During that time he had tamped down the fires that turned his guts to cinders—the combined rage and revulsion from what had been done to the children. He knew those feelings bubbled up from his anger at the fear he’d felt in Kansas when he’d been chased by the beast in the dark. He knew his anger was unreasonable, but he couldn’t tame it. Between the time he had returned to his seat inside the car and the agents’ arrival in Washington, Cabot’s anger had changed into a fluttering pain behind his breast bone. He remained aware of it all the while he prepared for his visit to Burnley. He hoped his jovial colleague would provide information that would be useful to the Aero-Marshals’ plans.

Cabot was aware he had to keep his emotions in check—otherwise, he could endanger his and Valiantine’s efforts to uncover the plot directed by Gallows, Wellington, and the mysterious Scarborough.

“We’ve not seen you for some weeks,” Burnley said, bringing Cabot back to the present.

“I’ve been on an extended investigation.” Cabot made no mention of the Aero-Marshal designation or his assignment, suspecting no information about it had been shared with anyone outside of the two so-called marshals.

“We wondered.”

“Director Gallows has sent no one else out for a long assignment like this?”

“No. Not since you left.” Burnley extended his glass for a refill. “I’ve been working on files in the office the past three weeks. I wouldn’t mind getting out, I’ll tell you that.”

Burnley’s response assured Cabot his companion knew nothing about his strange assignment nor his current status.

“I have been gone awhile,” Cabot said. “Bring me up to date on a few things. Have you heard of a fellow named Barnaby Scarborough?”

Burnley frowned. “Sounds familiar. Yes! He was in visiting old man Gallows just a few weeks ago. I was there when he came in.”

“Really?”

Burnley nodded. “Rufus said he’s some muckety-muck. No particular appointment, not elected, but apparently has the ear of McKinley.”

“The President?”

“McKinley, President, same man, yes.” Burnley sloshed his drink.

“How interesting.”

Burnley shrugged. “Rufus says he’s at the White House every day.” Bourbon dribbled onto the man’s trousers. “Maybe Gallows is getting a promotion. Say—if he does, maybe we’ll all move up. So Rufus says.” Burnley beamed at Cabot.

The latter poured more from the bottle into his friend’s glass. “Good to think so.”

“I think Rufus is tired of the Treasury. Or the work. Wants a change. Thinks Gallows might take him along to wherever his new posting might be. Y’know—” Burnley began to squint and emphasized his point by gesturing with his glass, “—Gallows hasn’t been in his office in days. Maybe he’s picking out a new office somewhere. Think he’ll be on the Cabinet?”

“I don’t know, my friend. But I’m sure he’ll be somewhere there’s a great deal of excitement.”

* * *

When Cabot left Burnley, his red-haired colleague was ready for slumber. His own drink was nearly untouched, and he tossed the contents of his glass into the flower beds edging the porch.

He stood now among a cluster of trees. Cabot’s silhouette merged with the black trunks in the night’s dark. He considered what he had learned.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of steps approaching through the trees. He stood quietly. The sounds stopped.

A voice whispered: “Cabot?” Valiantine.

“Here.”

The lieutenant came forward. He handed his partner a small parcel. “It was waiting at the Post Office, as you said. Under the name Delos Thurman.”

“Excellent.”

“Is there an actual Delos Thurman?”

“Yankee Bligh’s first two names. You didn’t suppose ‘Yankee’ was his real name, did you?”

“Hm. One never knows.”

Cabot dropped the parcel into his coat pocket. “You have a light?”

Valiantine raised a small lantern. “You’re armed?”

“Now, always.”

“Let’s go.”

They set out. The Washington night was warm and muggy. Cabot blamed the close air for the sweat crawling along his ribs, not the anxiety burbling in his guts.

They avoided areas lit by lamps and stayed in the shadows most of the way. They stopped when their destination lay just fifty yards away.

The Treasury Building.

“No one is usually around by this time of night,” Cabot said.

“No guards?”

“A single man on patrol. But I wonder if Gallows might have had reinforcements posted.”

“Why?”

Cabot rubbed his chin. “Perhaps he considered we might come back here.”

Valiantine gave him a steady look. “This is our bold move. It’s bold by the very fact that it’s unlikely.”

After a pause, Cabot nodded. “Posting more guards would only draw attention to Gallows. From what we’ve seen, he and the others want no more notice brought their way than is necessary. You’re right.”

“Is there a service entrance, some way to enter without being seen?”

“A service entrance, yes, but padlocked from inside.”

“So?”

“So we use the front door.” Cabot pointed. “There goes the guard.”

A figure crossed the front of the building and continued into the darkness, lighting his way with a lantern.

The lieutenant adjusted the lamp he carried, got the light going. “All right.”

Cabot opened the parcel Valiantine had brought. He stuffed the wrapping into one pocket of his jacket, and the contents of the parcel—a leather wallet—into the other side pocket. “All right.”

The two agents walked toward the building and made their way directly to the front door. Cabot grasped the large pull and tugged. The door swung open. “The public trust.”

They entered the public part of the building. Cabot led the way over a railing into a more private section, then ascended a stairway. Valiantine stayed close behind.

The two passed through a door at the top of the stairs, then down a hall. Valiantine’s lamp lit their way.

Cabot stopped before one of the heavy doors that interrupted the undecorated walls every several yards. He unlocked it using a key from his vest pocket. They entered the anteroom of Gallows’ office. Cabot took note of the desks where Jack Burnley, Rufus Turner, and James Barnes had been busy the day he had left for Kansas: all sat in a line, and the top of each was clear of all papers and files.

The door at the other side of the room blocked the way to Gallows’ office. Valiantine directed light on the ornate knob and lock.

Cabot tried the knob.

Locked.

He shrugged, then pulled the leather wallet from his jacket pocket. “This came from Sebastian Konz, my Louisville gunsmith. He’s quite the craftsman—he’s been awarded three or four patents for his inventions.” Unfolded, the wallet revealed a number of key-shaped implements. Cabot plucked one after the other and tried each in the door’s keyhole. Finally, he turned one of them with a satisfying
clunk
.

The two agents shared a look. Cabot turned the knob and entered.

Valiantine made the light dart around the office. “What are we looking for?” He followed his partner deeper into the room.

“I’m not sure yet.” Cabot went behind Gallows’ large desk. He relied on his wallet of implements again, working on the locked desk drawers. As he succeeded in unlocking each, he would open it and search its contents.

“No papers in here that mention anything we’ve been up to. Nothing that names Wellington or Scarborough.”

Valiantine turned the light onto a large black safe that sat against the back wall of the room. “Is that next?”

“I suppose so.”

The two approached the squat iron beast. “No keyhole,” Valiantine said. “We’ve run out of luck here.”

“Not necessarily.” Cabot tucked the wallet back into his pocket then hunkered down in front of the safe’s door. “Let me get the dial set to zero, then turn the lamp away. The dark will help me concentrate on my hearing.”

“Your hearing?”

“I’ll have my ear to the door, listening for tumblers falling.”

Valiantine turned the lamp away from the safe. “You are full of surprising talents.”

“As a police detective, one is in the company of an array of incorrigible people with a remarkable list of skills. One learns where and when one can.” He put his ear to the metal door. “As a Treasury agent, the skills one hones are more narrowly focused because of the types of crimes one encounters, but the varieties are just as extraordinary.”

“No doubt.”

“Now shush.”

Cabot tried not to strain to hear anything within the door’s works—that might lead to hearing false
snicks
or
clicks
that would only cause his efforts to take longer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
Relax
, he thought.
Darken the mind like this room. Listen. Just listen, don’t strain for what’s not there. Caress the lock, and she will give up her whispers and giggles
.

He put his fingers on the dial.
Lightly, lightly
, he reminded himself.
We’re here in the dark, the two of us, alone, quiet, and tender
.

Cabot began to turn the dial gently. Slowly.
Savor the tactile delights—the slight resistance of the turning, the whisper of its well-oiled glide, the press of the door’s face against the cheek and the rising warmth there.

Delicate, so delicate. Tell me your secrets, my dear.

Crick.

How sweet, how modest
. Cabot began to turn the dial the opposite direction.
Careful, sir, no need to rush. Slow the breathing. Consider, no, relish the moment, the now, not the prize that awaits
.

Cabot continued his silent efforts. He lost track of time, living only for the instants when the tumblers spoke to him. Any sense of Valiantine’s presence faded from his awareness. He turned the dial and listened, listened, until...

T-clack
.

Oh, my dear.

Cabot took his fingers from the dial and grasped the door handle.

He turned the latch.

Thunk
. “Ah. The light, please.”

Valiantine quickly complied. In the yellow gleam, Cabot stood before the open door of the safe.

“Cabot, that’s—that’s amazing!”

“Perhaps. Primarily it is very tiring. Take a look in there, will you, while I catch my breath.”

Valiantine stepped forward as Cabot stepped back. “Really, I am very impressed. How did you do that?”

“I had a good teacher,” Cabot answered. “He said, ‘Think of the safe as if it is a woman. You must be patient and gentle and kind. Especially patient. And then she will be yours.’ What do you find?”

“Some currency—it will take your eye instead of mine to determine whether it’s genuine or fake. Papers. But nothing about our investigations, and I don’t see Wellington or Scarborough’s name on anything here.”

“Nothing else?” Cabot’s spirits slumped.

“A velvet bag. Here. Did you say Gallows put the coin in a wooden box?”

“Yes!”

“Then here we may be.” Valiantine drew three wooden boxes from a black drawstring bag and arranged them on Gallows’ desk. In a snap they were open, and the lamp shone on the coin within each.

Cabot caught his breath. “That’s them! Not all, I think, but perhaps he doesn’t have them all.”

He bent closer to examine the coins’ details. “Odd,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I can’t tell which is the one I found in Kansas. Maybe none is. But they all seem far more worn than the ones I’ve seen so far.”

“The same type of coin as the ones you’ve seen?”

“Oh, yes. And I can just make out the dates—again, same age as the ones I had in my hands. But they look so much older, worn down.” Cabot reached out and touched the dull surface of one of the coins. “By Gadfrey!”

“What?”

“Look—just my touch seems to have... smudged the raised surface of the coin, marred the design. And here, my fingertip: it’s shiny, as though the metal was turning to dust and lifted from the money onto my skin.”

“Is it really gold?”

“Yes, yes, I’d swear so. But the coin seems to be... I’m not sure. Decaying? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Do you suppose they are—it sounds completely fantastic even to me as I say it—turning into slugs like the others that were found by the police?”