The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  I showed him the gum wrapper and penny. “Do these mean anything to you?”

  Cyrus shook his head, but he held out his hand for the items anyway.

  “Have you checked all the pockets?” he asked.

  “The clean ones.”

  “What about the dirty ones?”

  “Do I get hazard pay for this?” I asked.

  Cyrus worked unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

  “Let me know what you find.”

  I picked up the first pair of pants and patted the pockets.

  “Ah, gotcha,” I muttered when my fingers felt the small, hard lump in the right front pocket. Wedging my hand inside, I grasped the slim object and withdrew a camera similar to the one I owned.

  Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought, slipping the camera into one of the pouches.

  I was turning out the pockets in the third pair of trousers when I heard soft, rhythmic knocking from the other side of the bedroom.

  I poked my head through an opening in the closet doors and saw my boss rapping his knuckles lightly around the frame of a seemingly random door on the far side of the bed. Cyrus reached for the knob and gave it a tentative twist. The door opened noiselessly.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  Cyrus gave a short laugh. “Another door. I assume it leads to the neighboring suite. No knob, though.” He repeated the knocking pattern on the second door. “Definitely open space on the other side,” he murmured, more to himself than me. Closing the first door, Cyrus gave me his undivided attention. “Find anything?”

  “I did—Lachlan’s camera.” I held up the pouch with the camera inside.

  Three long, sharp bangs followed by a muffled, “Housekeeping”, from the front door of the suite made us both freeze.

  “We’ll go through the saved pictures back at the townhouse. Anything else?”

  Since we were now running short on time, I turned the pants that I was still holding upside down and shook them. Several coins fell to the carpet in a series of soft thuds. Then, four ticket stubs floated free from their fabric prison. Squatting, I read the information on each one aloud. My heart pounded harder and harder with every mangled French word that crossed my lips.

  I looked up and met Cyrus’s intense gaze, knowing even before I voiced my next thought that my boss had already reached the same conclusion.

  “These stubs are all for shows where the Night Gentleman struck. Lachlan is the killer.”

  “DOES THAT HURT? It looks like it hurts,” I asked Gaige, squinting up at him from my perch on the sitting room sofa to better appraise the damage to his face. “Who knew a group of erudite men was capable of inflicting so much physical damage?”

  This was the first I’d seen of Gaige since we’d parted ways that morning. When he’d sauntered down the stairs to join me in waiting for Ines to arrive, so that we could head over to Gertrude Stein’s party, I’d been more than a little shocked. My partner’s day of boxing with three of the century’s most celebrated authors had left him with one very impressive black eye.

  Fingers outstretched, I reached towards his face as if my touch would sooth the shiner. Why? I couldn’t say. Maybe it was that mothering nature Molly liked to tease me about.

  Gaige swatted my hand away before I made contact. I wasn’t sure whether it was because his ego was bruised from getting beat up by a group of intellectuals, or that he was proud of the manly badge and didn’t want to feel babied. Either way, he waved off my concern over the dark bruising.

  “My eye isn’t important right now,” Gaige grumbled irritably, though a small, satisfied smile skimmed across his lips when he touched the discolored skin over his cheekbone. He dropped down beside me on the couch.

  “How did it go down at the police station?” I asked. “Since you’re here, I’m guessing it was okay?”

  Gaige grimaced. He held up his hand and wiggled it back and forth to indicate so-so.

  “That good, huh?”

  “You should have seen that inspector’s face just before the line-up, when I handed him the travel documents. Oh, man, Stass. Priceless. He turned bright red and his eyes bugged out of his face. It was awesome.”

  Gaige’s colorful description brought to mind the dancer from the night before. The way she’d looked as she knelt dying on stage right in front of us. I felt the blood drain from my face and my stomach started doing backflips. It was still unfathomable that I’d sat fifteen feet away as a woman was murdered.

  Though I’d been focusing on the mission all day, distracting myself and keeping busy, every once in a while the scene would pop back into my head like glimpses of a nightmare. My partner’s offhand remark brought it all rushing back.

  Immediately realizing his mistake, Gaige backpedaled.

  “Damn, Stass, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I wasn’t thinking, I’m such a donk.” He slung an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. All traces of humor were gone when he continued. “Last night was awful.” He shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory from his brain. “I still just…I’ve never seen someone die before.”

  “Me neither. I’ll need therapy when we get home,” I tried to joke.

  I couldn’t think about those poor dancers. Every time I did, it felt like I was the one gasping for breath. I kept hearing the words of the maniac in my head.

  “Are you not amused? I know I am.”

  How could someone be so cruel?

  Gaige rewarded my efforts to lighten the mood with a quip of his own. “Me, too. Maybe we can go halfsies on a couple of sessions. You know, like a two-for-one deal. It’ll be like couples’ counseling…except, not.”

  And that was why, despite his many flaws, I loved Gaige like the brother I never wanted.

  “Now that they have the travel documents, are the police done harassing you?” I asked, needing to change the subject. Any more talk of the previous night’s tragedy would make it too difficult to play the part of a whimsical socialite that night.

  “Yeah, about that,” Gaige started, his quick change in mood making me nervous. “I have good news and bad news.”

  “Start with the good,” I decided.

  “The man who was approached by the Night Gentleman did not pick me out of the line-up.”

  “That’s amazing news. Isn’t that all that matters?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” my partner replied. “He also didn’t say it wasn’t me. Since the Night Gentleman was wearing both a mask and top hat, which is part of why the witness believed he was with the show, the man didn’t see enough to say with certainty whether or not it was any of us. So, basically, all his failure to identify me accomplished was preventing the inspector from locking me up today.”

  “Shant,” I swore. “You said you gave the inspector the travel documents, right? Do you think he’s going to check on them? We’re going to be screwed if he does. Delivering forged papers looks worse than if you hadn’t given the police anything at all.”

  “I know, right? And I don’t think the inspector is going to check,” Gaige hedged. “I know he is. He told me as much himself.”

  “What would—”

  “Ready, my dears?” Ines’s voice suddenly trilled from the foyer, effectively cutting me off. She strode into the living room, the ever-present cloud of smoke trailing her like a shadow. “Jacque is outside.”

  “Where’s Cyrus?” Gaige asked. “Does he not want to join us for this little shindig?”

  Ines furrowed her brow, most likely confused by the word “shindig”. She must have puzzled out the meaning on her own, though, because she didn’t ask for clarification.

  “Cyrus has other matters to attend to this evening. I am sure he will explain it all to you in the morning. For now, I can say my people have encountered a small wrinkle. The name on the card you received, Stassi, he does not appear to exist. We have found no mention of a Mitchell T. Baylarian in our records. Cyrus believes your historians will have better luck.” She sniffed, as if offen
ded that the syndicate’s people, with their advanced technology, would be able to locate a man the alchemists could not. “Now, are you both ready? We are already running behind schedule.”

  “Whose fault is that?” I mumbled under my breath.

  Disregarding my comment, Ines spun and walked purposefully back to the front door, obviously expecting Gaige and me to follow. We both stood and obeyed her silent command.

  I opened my mouth, prepared to resume the conversation from before Ines’s interruption. Gaige caught my eye and shook his head ever so slightly. His meaning was clear: let’s not discuss this in front of Ines. His expression, on the other hand, made it impossible to tell why he didn’t want to. Did not trust the alchemist? Or was he simply not in the mood for the flippant attitude that seemed to accompany anything remotely serious with her?

  Personally, I found Ines irritating but harmless.

  Either way, there was no more talk of death and psychopaths on the ride over to Gertrude Stein’s home. Instead, Gaige gave us a blow-by-blow account of his day in the boxing ring. With his dramatic retelling, it sounded like he’d gone ten rounds with the 2405 Heavyweight Champion, Marcus Maximus, instead of dodging a couple of punches from writers. Or not dodging them, in his case. Nonetheless, I was glad to see him in good spirits. As traumatized as I was over my police interrogation, it was nothing compared to what Gaige had been through.

  Judging by the lack of cars and people outside of Stein’s house, our trio was among the last to arrive for the night’s festivities. Leave it to Ines to feel as though a grand entrance was in order.

  Gaige and I followed our guide through the tall front gate and across the courtyard beyond it. The cobblestoned patio had a small fountain in the middle, and paths trailed off into the darkness in either direction. From photographs, I knew that carefully tended gardens lay in the shadows beyond.

  Ines paused at the front door to 27 rue de Fleurus and took a deep breath. When she turned to face us, a feigned brightness shone from her expression.

  “Lock it up,” Gaige said, pointing at me.

  “You lock it up,” I replied with a smile, mentally preparing myself for the pivotal night ahead.

  Ines raised one eyebrow, looking at Gaige and me like we were weirdos. “This little act that the two of you perform, it is very odd,” she said.

  Gaige shrugged. “Maybe. But it works. Why mess with success?”

  “It had better,” Ines replied crisply. “Tonight, there is no room for error.”

  And with those words of encouragement, she pushed the door open and entered without knocking.

  ROUGHLY TWO DOZEN people were already milling around Stein’s main sitting room, just off the front foyer. They stood chatting in small groups, sipping cocktails and eating delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres from white china plates. I recognized many of the faces from Historian Eisenhower’s lecture, though seeing them in person was very different. This was the first time I’d encountered so many notable figures at once. An interaction with any one of them could easily change the course of history. To say I was feeling nervous was like saying the Epic War was a mere skirmish.

  Be cool, I thought, slightly worried that my inner fangirl would creep out and embarrass me. You’re a pro, you can do this.

  Even among the group of so many who commanded attention, spotting our hostess was an easy task. Gertrude Stein stood near the fireplace with a group of men that included Rosenthal. They all appeared to be hanging on her every word. At least, until the whispered news of our arrival began to spread throughout the room like a brushfire. Gaige, Ines, and I stood conspicuously in the foyer, every eye in the salon suddenly peering in our direction.

  It’s like the opening scene of one of my nightmares, I thought frantically. Those horror movie-esque dreams always ended the same way: I’d return to a bloody, unrecognizable present caused by my actions in the past. It was truly one of my greatest fears, right up there with being buried alive. And ostriches—terrifyingly aggressive creatures, something I’d learned the hard way.

  Lock it up, Drama Queen, I lectured myself, putting on my practiced, congenial smile.

  The volume in the room had gone from an eight to a one. The only sounds were loud whispering and the rustling of clothing. Heads turned and necks craned in an overt attempt to catch a glimpse of the Americans at the center of the latest scandal. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be infamous. I didn’t much care for it.

  “No need to stare, the Princes will be here all evening,” Ines proclaimed loudly.

  “No worries, folks, that mess with the police has been cleared up,” Gaige added, smiling winningly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “How positively boring,” a short blonde woman declared to her male companion. Her tone that clearly indicated that she’d been hoping my partner was involved in the murders.

  “Some people are so strange,” Gaige muttered in my ear.

  “Mix and mingle, my dears,” Ines said. The order leaked through her slightly parted, heavily painted lips, without as much as a twitch of her facial muscles.

  Ines ushered us through the entranceway to the salon. Despite Gaige’s declaration of innocence, the crowd inched our way in a not-so-subtle manner, making no attempts to hide their curiosity. To me, wanting to meet suspected killers seemed like a blatant disregard for common sense. The partygoers clearly didn’t share my beliefs. In this instance, I was grateful since it meant the allegations hadn’t ruined our chances of gaining a toehold with Rosenthal’s set. In a society where being interesting was the most readily-accepted currency, Gaige and I were currently flush. Evidently, murder suspects bested artists and literati.

  Playing the part of hostess, Stein broke away from the group of men and shuffled over to greet us. With her short, practical hair, and round face punctuated by kind brown eyes, the great matriarch of twentieth century literature could only be described as handsome. I found myself drawn to her, fascinated by the intelligence radiating from her like heat from an inferno.

  Stein welcomed Gaige and Ines as if they were old friends.

  “Tell me that ordeal with the inspector has not turned you off of Paris,” she said to Gaige.

  “Not at all. These things happen.” Gaige waved it off, as though police interrogations where par for the course with him. “Besides, now I have one hell of a story to tell my friends back home.”

  “Right you are,” Stein agreed with an approving nod. “A good story is the spark of inspiration necessary to ignite great novels.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Gaige replied, drawing me forward into Stein’s direct line of sight. “Ms. Stein, allow me to introduce my sister, Anastasia Prince.”

  I held out my hand, and Stein shook it heartily. “It’s such an honor,” I gushed, unable to stop myself.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alice Toklas beeline from across the room to stand by her wife’s side. Where Stein was rounded edges with soft curves and a keen gaze, Toklas’s face was composed of hard lines and mismatched features with a suspicious look in her eye. As subtly as a dog marking its territory, Toklas silently appraised our motley crew.

  “An honor?” Stein gave a short bark of laughter. “Did you hear that, Alice?” She turned to smirk at her wife, who made no reply save a small grunt of acknowledgement. “Are you a writer, Anastasia?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, merely a lover of literature. I love to read,” I replied nervously.

  “Anastasia is being modest,” Gaige interjected. “She has yet to give writing a stab, but she’s a great editor. My dear sister here deserves an award for typing up my chicken scratch ramblings. She makes my boring stories worlds more interesting.”

  “Oh? You’re a writer, then?” Stein asked.

  “More of a dabbler,” Gaige said with faux modesty.

  Stein turned her attention back to me. “You and Alice have something in common—she’s my typist and editor.”

  Gaige and I alread
y knew this from our lessons with Historian Eisenhower. And while we hadn’t discussed including either Gaige’s dabbling or my alleged editing skills, the embellishment to our cover story did make for a nice segue. From there, I was able to turn the conversation to more comfortable ground.

  “I’m just glad my brother’s hobby has allowed me to put my education to good use,” I said.

  “You’re from Baltimore, right? Where did you attend school?” Stein asked.

  “Oldfields, just outside the city. Do you know it?”

  “Oh, you must know the DuPont girls. Lovely young women, I hear,” Stein inquired.

  Thank goodness Historian Eisenhower was so thorough when helping us prep our cover stories. The DuPont girls were among the school’s most notable recent alumni.

  “We had mutual friends back in school, and even went on a ski trip with a large group one Christmas holiday. Alice is an absolute gas. We haven’t kept in touch, though,” I replied, the lie coming effortlessly.

  “That tends to happen throughout life. You’ll encounter those you’ve lost contact with when you least expect,” Stein replied wisely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment, Zelda appears to be all lathered up.” She nodded towards the blonde who’d termed Gaige’s innocence “boring”. “The last thing we need tonight is another row with Hemingway. No filter on that one. I’ll be right back.”

  As the hostess made her way across the room to put out the fire brewing in Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald—there was no love lost between Zelda and Hemingway—I smiled awkwardly at Toklas.

  Gertrude Stein seemed to be a pleasant, albeit-no-nonsense, woman. I couldn’t say the same about her other half. Toklas radiated hostility, and her dour expression suggested that she would rather chew glass than spend another second in my company. In the spirit of professionalism, I simply smiled to avoid further offending the woman.

  Gaige and Ines were both occupied conversing with other guests, so I was on my own with Toklas. After a moment of tense silence, I scoured my mental database for a neutral topic. Finally, I decided on flattery.