House of Corruption (10 page)

Savoy and Grant spent the remainder of the afternoon keeping surveillance in the foyer, idling through the hotel stables, asking questions, and doing all they could to glean information without attraction attention. None of it mattered. Neither Miss Carlovec, nor any of her servants, arrived or departed the hotel.

“This woman,” Grant asked. “You think she—?”

“I do not know,” Savoy said. “I do hope tonight proves more productive.”

When they arrived at LaCroix Manor later that evening, they were intercepted by Mrs. Eleanor Quibb, the house’s caretaker. She was a mature woman with a gray dress and gray hair pulled back in a bun, wielding the mansion’s needs with an uncompromising grip and just a touch of Southern grace. Her husband Gordon served as the groundskeeper and groom, a man as meek as Eleanor was flinty, spending his time in the stables or puttering among the shrubs.

She watched as the men climbed the porch steps. She regarded first Savoy, then Grant’s tall, imposing shoulders, her expression less than ecstatic. It was downright put out.

“Mister Savoy,” she said.

“Eleanor,” Savoy said. “Always a pleasure. Did Reynard mention our coming?”

“Neither hide nor hair of that boy today,” she said. “And
no
, you were not expected. I have not done a thing with the guesthouse in months. There is not enough supper prepared.” She looked up at Grant again. “Especially if you’ve come with an appetite. If you wish to call another day—”

“Arté!”

Lasha glided through the open front door and tugged at Eleanor’s apron; the gray-haired matron puffed a breath of discontent and moved out of the way. Lasha was dressed in an ivory frock and embroidered vest with just the slightest hint of a bustle, emulating the current fashion down to the overturned cuffs of her puffed sleeves. Eleanor took a look at her, frowned, and left her to handle the guests.

“I did not know you were in town,” Lasha said, leading Savoy inside to the foyer. Grant followed. “It is a delight to see you again. I challenged my geography professor on the Columbus issue as you suggested, and I must tell you what he—” She stopped, noticing Grant, and regarded him from boots to the top of his head. “My, sir, but you are tall.”

“
Miss
,” Savoy chided. “Mister Mahonri Grant, I introduce Mademoiselle Lasha Rosemarie LaCroix.”

“Pleasure,” Grant said.

Lasha’s cheeks bloomed red, a blank smile on her face. She led them to the study, a cozy den of many bookshelves and cushioned nooks with plenty of lamps. “Have you seen Reynard yet?” she asked. “Does he know you are here? He sent Freddie, er, Mister Burlington this morning to invite me to dinner. In town, even.” She laughed with a wag of her head. “Very impulsive. Renny
must
be ill.”

“This morning?” Savoy asked, confused. “He told you this morning?”

“Are you joining us? Please say yes.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“He means to surprise me,” Lasha said, “seeing he owes me for last night, but I assume things have been very bad at work. He will not mind if I bring you along.” She looked at Grant. “Though I dare say dining with strangers can be
such
a bore.”

“I’d like to think I make good company, miss,” Grant said.

“Oh my,” she said, covering her mouth. “What I meant is...with strangers
you
might be...” More red blushed her cheeks. “You seem a man of the west. Am I right?”

“Rocky Mountains.”

“I almost thought you Wyatt Earp.”

“I’ve met him. He’s much shorter.”

“I can imagine.” She sighed. “I envy you. I
so
look forward to visiting San Francisco one day.” She led the men to the library’s cushioned couches in the corner. “We can catch up,” she said to Savoy, “and I will sneak you some scones and you’ll tell me all about London.”

She left.

“Like a whirlwind,” Grant said, smiling as Lasha’s happy voice echoed from the kitchen. “I thought your friend invited us here for supper.”

“As did I.”

“Do we wait?”

“Reynard will keep his word,” Savoy said. “I imagine he has a perfectly good explanation for this confusion.”

***

Time had drawn short. Reynard was surprised at how quickly the day had flown. He thought about all he had done, the memory muted, foggy. What all had he accomplished that day? It had been productive, hadn’t it?

It’s that woman.

His anxiety had grown in proportion to the reduction of time toward his appointment with Miss Recently Arrived from North Borneo. He poured himself a glass of vodka and hoped to clear the cobwebs with a late supper and fresh air. Mr. Burlington had been gone on errands much of the day, but now sat at his desk filing papers with no discernable purpose. Reynard gathered his overcoat and started for the door.

“End of day, sir?” Frederick asked.

“Yes,” Reynard said. “You’ll lock up, please?”

“Certainly.” Frederick managed a curt smile. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Outside, Reynard headed north as he considered his options. The restaurants along Royal Street were full of pompous types and inflated prices. The French Quarter was eight or nine streets away, but in the last few years it had become less the city’s jewel and more a haven for those who preferred shadows and cheap rent. Around him came the exhaust and gutter-muck and smells of fish, the shouts of a costermonger, the rattle of the omnibus on its rails, the clatter of hooves on chert and gravel. The strings of telegraph and electric and telephone wire stretched above him as if the city quivered beneath the black webs of some industrial spider. 

His path followed busier lanes where late afternoon traffic spilled along the avenue, ruffle-necked ladies clutching gentleman’s arms to attend another blathering opera or cocktail party where photographs would be taken. New Orleans had unearthed itself from the Southern Rebellion with a desire to be noticed, its wealthier citizens building their monuments and acting the part as if they strolled the banquettes of Paris. Lasha preferred that they mingled among those peacocks, but her delight was naïve. How could he convince her of their duplicities?

Within an hour he arrived at
Le Restaurant de la Louisiane
nestled on a quiet side street, took a seat in the outdoor café and ordered a late supper of
Onglet à l’Echalotte
with the meat especially rare. As shadows lengthened, a gaslighter fired a streetlamp’s jets with white-blue haze.

He should have contacted Savoy personally. Arté meant well; he had done so much, sought his welfare. Yet he imagined exchanging awkward pleasantries with him and his companion Grant—quite possibly the man responsible for Bill Tourney’s death, a hulkish murderer glaring at Lasha with lurid glances, invited into his private circle solely on unsubstantiated presumptions.

What the hell was I thinking
?

Thank God for Freddie.

***

Savoy checked his pocket watch for the fifth time.
Where is he
?

He, Lasha and Grant spent the last hour visiting, sharing stories in the study while they enjoyed fresh scones lathered in butter and honey. He told what he felt to share about his previous year’s events, any stories of gossip and scandal—a visit to the inauguration of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, a large dock workers strike, various aristocrats caught in compromising situations—all to Lasha’s delight.

The conversation turned to Grant, who kept his topic squarely on his time in Arizona, of Apaches and cowboys and towns where everyone—
even the ladies
, he said with a wink—wore a pistol on their belt. He proved a friendly conversationalist. Lasha sat spellbound even if, Savoy suspected, details were dipped in a thick sauce of exaggeration.

“Mister Burlington’s come to fetch you,” Eleanor said, appearing in the study doorway. She motioned for Lasha to stand and examined her dress, tucking a strand of hair into her crow’s nest. “You mind yourself, miss, and be sure your brother returns you at a decent hour. When is the last time that boy had a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes,” Lasha said. “I will tell him.” She looked to Savoy. “Will you join us?”

“Thank you,” Savoy said, “but we were not invited.”

“Then I am inviting you.”

“Reynard made it seem he would meet us here for supper, but I...” He wagged his head. “I must have misunderstood.” He took Lasha’s hands in both his own. “Have a pleasant time.”

“Good bye, Arté,” she said. “I hope you will stay with us. The guest house is always open, despite what Eleanor might say.” She extended her hand and Grant took it. “Goodbye, Mister Grant. I will ask Renny to invite you too. I
do
want to hear more about Indians.”

“Yes,” he replied with a wide smile. “Goodbye, miss.”

Out in the driveway Frederick Burlington waited beside the coach in his usual suit and tie. When Savoy raised a hand of greeting he did not acknowledge it, focused only on Lasha as she descended the porch steps. Could he blame him? Grant himself had a difficult time taking his eyes off her—she was luminous, delighted at the anticipation of a pleasant evening. She turned and waved vigorously with a bright smile. Savoy waved back as the coach bore her away.

Savoy worried he might be the victim of a sophomoric prank. Why would Reynard treat him so shamefully? Why not just tell him he was not invited?

Grant, beside him, watched the coach leave with an expression equally grim. “Perhaps we should follow,” he said.

“Unwise,” Savoy replied. “Monsieur LaCroix has enough grievances against me already.”

***

Lasha’s coach rattled down the driveway, met the lonely road and continued east toward New Orleans, the way lit by two candlelamps on either side of the driver’s seat. Faint, diffused light managed into the coach through the thick muslin curtains. The dark might have been oppressive, uncomfortable, yet Lasha was too busy smiling as she huddled in her wrap.

Where were they going? She had mentioned her desire to dine at the Commander’s Palace in the Garden District—were they going there? She imagined chilled oysters on the half shell, rich crawfish bisque, and spicy barbecued shrimp. She focused on the images of reds and whites and browns from such delicacies, the nutty smells, the aromas of garlic steam, the miasma of high-class conversations.

“Where are we meeting him?” she asked.

Frederick Burlington did not hear, apparently, seated on the opposite bench, but she had never been so close to him before. When the coach leaned into a rut, her knee brushed ever-so-slightly against his own. He twitched. She would have laughed at his discomfort, but that would only embarrass him. What could she say? Did he secretly fancy her?

Lasha doubted her brother would take to her making a match with a clerk; the gift of her inheritance needed—according to everything she had been taught—to be passed on to those of standing and strong lineage. Those young men who fit that description often bored her. She would gladly give it all away for someone who loved her, someone who made her laugh.

Like that man Grant
, she mused, smiling.

The estate lay far behind when she registered how dark it was, the depth of the profound silence. She pulled the beaver fur wrap around her neck, smoothing a hand over its glossy surface. When she inhaled she noticed the faint residue of perfume and bathing powder—her mother’s smell—and she closed her eyes and wished she sat there in Freddie’s place. She wanted smiles and light conversation, not an icy wall of silence.

“I am sorry for the imposition Freddie,” she said, still gazing out the window, “having to make this trip so often lately. I suppose Renny will have to employ a service, or something, and give you a night off.” She laughed, slightly.

He did not speak. When she turned to look at him, really
look
, he was staring at her. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing no reflection, empty and hard and shiny, and then she noticed another man seated on the other side of the coach. Why had she not noticed him before? This one blended into the dark has if he was made of it, his head wrapped in a dark turban, his dark skin barely visible in the gloom. Black dot tattoos crawled like a serpent from his left eye, down his face, and disappeared below his collar.

“Freddie?”

“Be quiet, my dear,” he said, his voice wrong. “You were promised something exciting, were you not?”

She stiffened. “What?”

“You shall never be left alone again.” 

10

The night hung cold and thick by the time Savoy and Grant returned to LaCroix Brokerage, fog creeping along the sidewalk in a cottony tide. No note of explanation was posted on the door of
LaCroix Brokerage
. No light shone through the frosted glass.

“This is unlike him,” Savoy said.

“Why not wait at City Park?” Grant asked.

“Eventually.” Savoy rubbed his hands together. “I did not intend to blunder into the appointment, especially before she arrived. Perhaps we were expected to dine with them tonight. I am not the most fastidious in my scheduling.” He pressed his hands and face against the glass to see inside. “His clerk
is
, however. There must be a calendar.”

Savoy knocked and, to their surprise, the door opened on oiled hinges. The office was dark. “Reynard?” Savoy called. “Mister Burlington?”

No answer. They moved inside.

Savoy pulled the cord for the electric light and the ceiling fan clucked into life. He glanced over Mister Burlington’s desk; with the stacks of papers and pens and bottles of ink, piles of packets and envelopes and folders, he found any search for Reynard’s schedule problematic. He examined the pathways of the mess, wondering how a man with such a desk could manage much of anything. Grant drifted down the hall while Savoy looked for an appointment book. Mister Burlington may not have been the most organized of clerks, but—

—
He sent Freddie first thing this morning,
Lasha had said,
to invite me to dinner.