The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Thank you, sir,” said the waitress.

  “Now you pour for me,” he said, setting down the pots.

  The waitress picked them up, aligned them over Christophe’s cup, and poured neatly and precisely. Marie would have been willing to swear that the measure of each liquid was exactly the same. A pity; Christophe preferred a little extra milk.

  “Eh, bien! You are a quick study, Colette.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I bring you anything else?”

  “A newspaper, if one is handy.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The waitress whisked away. Marie glanced up at Christophe. “You are flirting with a machine.”

  “Mm. But I have heard that some of these machines are quite...skilled.”

  A flare of anger rose in Marie — not at Christophe’s insinuation, but at the memory of the indignities Mignon had suffered at the hands of her owner. Not that this waitress had any feelings, unlike Mignon.

  Christophe poured a little more milk into his cup, lifted it, and sipped, then tilted his head. “I do believe you are jealous!”

  “Hah! Of a machine? You are mistaken, cher. I merely find it ridiculous that you would offer it attentions that it cannot appreciate.”

  He shrugged. “It amuses me.”

  A bright, musical chord sounded across the water. Marie looked up to see the Calypso gliding toward the wharf. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Amuse yourself with a puzzle instead,” she said softly. “How am I to get aboard that boat?”

  “You could ask your escort to obtain passage for you.”

  She blinked, about to protest that the boat went nowhere of interest. Except that Whiteston was of interest to her.

  There had been passengers on the boat yesterday. Annoyed at herself for not thinking of this simple solution, she picked up her cup and sipped her café. When she could smile, she looked at Christophe.

  “Yes, my love, s’il te plaît.”

  “If Dessins is really a prisoner aboard the boat, how do you expect to find him?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps my escort will be so kind as to distract attention from my explorations.”

  “Ah. I knew I would get into trouble this way.”

  “You need not come.”

  “If you think I am letting you walk into this alone —”

  “Ssst.”

  The waitress was returning with a newspaper. Marie leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup with both hands.

  “Here you are, sir. What else may I bring you?”

  “Nothing just now. Thank you, Colette.”

  Christophe unfolded the paper. The waitress left. Marie watched the Calypso’s crew secure the vessel to the dock.

  “You know, he may not be on the boat at all,” Christophe said.

  “But the music —”

  “They might have had him on it yesterday, taking him to Whiteston.”

  “But Mary said he was taken two days ago. Three days ago now.”

  Christophe frowned. “That does make it seem as though he is being kept on the boat. Curious choice.”

  He turned his gaze to his paper. Marie picked up her cup, but the café had cooled too much. She set it down again and watched a handful of passengers alight from the Calypso. Again, the crew of automata began unloading a large quantity of cargo. Whiteston’s mills must be very profitable.

  She glanced at the Texas deck, looking for Mr. White, but apparently he was not aboard today. The cabin remained closed.

  The calliope started to play a cheerful tune. Christophe folded his paper. “Shall we?”

  “Yes.”

  Even as he was raising his hand, the waitress started toward their table. It must know the signs of a patron preparing to depart. Christophe paid, then stood and offered his arm to Marie. All the while the calliope played gaily.

  They walked to the gate, then turned toward the docks. Marie made herself keep to Christophe’s languid stroll, though she was burning to get aboard the boat. She tried to look idle and curious as Christophe led her up to a man who was supervising the unloading of cargo.

  “Good morning. I understand there is an interesting mill at Whiteston, and that this boat goes there. How much is the passage?”

  The foreman frowned. “There are no amusements at Whiteston. The mill is not open to the public.”

  “No? But we could enjoy the journey.”

  “The boat will not return to Galveston today, and there are no accommodations in Whiteston.”

  “I was given to understand that you carry passengers.”

  “Workers to the mill, only.”

  “Ah.” Christophe turned to Marie. “I am sorry, my love.”

  Annoyed at his giving up so soon, she allowed her voice to become petulant. “But I want to see the calliope!”

  Christophe turned to the foreman with an air of long suffering. “How much for a tour of the boat while you are docked?”

  The foreman eyed Marie. “Twenty dollars. But we won’t be docked more than half an hour. You must leave before we depart.”

  “Thank you.”

  Christophe took out his billfold and handed the foreman twenty dollars, an outrageous fee for a half-hour’s entertainment. Tickets to the opera were not so dear.

  “Jessup, come here,” he called.

  An automaton from the crew came toward them. Marie resisted an inclination to frown.

  “Show these good people around the boat. They will be leaving when the whistle blows for departure.”

  “Yes, sir.” The machine turned flat eyes toward Christophe and Marie. Despite its common worker’s clothing, it carried itself with the same precise air as the waitress. “Good afternoon. This way.”

  It led them up a staircase to the next deck. All the woodwork was a brilliant white, as if freshly painted.

  “Is the boat new?” Marie asked.

  “New this spring, ma’am.”

  “It seems rather elaborate for transporting cargo and workers,” Christophe said.

  “It is also the private residence of Mr. White, who owns the White Milling Company.”

  “Ah. And the rest of Whiteston, from the sound of it.”

  “You might say so, sir. It is a factory town. This is the passenger deck.”

  Marie gazed around at the plain white benches that stood all the way around the deck’s outer edge. The centre of the deck was enclosed, walled rooms with windows that were presently covered.

  “What is in there?”

  “The dining room, ma’am. It is rarely used except when Mr. White entertains guests.”

  “Oh! Does he have parties and cruise around the bay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Occasionally.”

  Marie glanced at Christophe. “We must befriend Mr. White. How I should love to attend such a party!”

  The automaton made no comment. Marie acknowledged to herself that it was useless to try to lead a machine. If she wished it to tell her something, she must ask a direct question.

  “Will you show us the dining room?”

  The automaton led them to a door and opened it. The room inside was elegantly appointed, with much brass and red drapery. Tables enough for fifty, she judged, stood empty and uncovered, their polished wood softly gleaming. The lamps were unlit, but still Marie could imagine the brilliance of the place when filled with light and company.

  An open doorway led into the kitchen. She saw no doors into smaller rooms that might have been used to imprison a hostage.

  The calliope music ceased. Marie glanced upward, waiting to hear what the next song would be. In a moment it began — a common American tune. She hid disappointment.

  “May I see the calliope?” she asked the automaton.

  “Certainly. This way.”

  It led them up another flight of stairs, emerging onto the Texas deck. Marie blinked in the bright daylight.

  “This is the top deck,” Christophe said. “Is this where Mr. White resides?”

  “Yes sir.” />
  “Oh! We would not wish to disturb him,” Marie said.

  “He is not aboard at present, ma’am.”

  “Oh. He must be at the mill.”

  The automaton did not answer, but instead walked along the deck, past the living quarters and toward the calliope. Christophe caught Marie’s hand and slid it into the crook of his arm.

  She glanced toward the quarters as they passed, wondering if Immanuel was within. She could not pause to use her inner sight.

  Steam soared upward from the calliope’s pipes, a different blast with each note. Marie saw that the keys themselves were moving, as if a ghost sat there playing. She was surprised that the music was not overwhelming even though she stood right next to the instrument. She had expected it to be painfully loud, but it was not, though certainly too loud for comfortable conversation.

  Christophe had thought of this, too, it seemed, for he pointed to the pipes as he indicated to the automaton that he wished to ask a question. They moved a short distance away, giving Marie opportunity to observe the instrument.

  She did not know what to look for, alas. She was not a musician, and though music was in her soul, it was the music of hands on drums and feet on the dark earth.

  The song ended. Christophe’s voice filled the sudden silence, a mouse’s squeak compared to the power of the calliope.

  Marie frowned at the instrument. There was no printed music anywhere in sight. She could see no apparatus — such as the drum and pins of a music box — that might explain the automated music. She took the Dessins’ little box from her pocket and opened it. The tiny pings of its music could not have been more different than the sound of the massive instrument before her.

  A chuff sounded from the calliope, startling her. She glanced up just as the music box was completing the first line of “Au Clair de la Lune.” At the second line, the calliope joined in, and this time it was so loud she nearly cried out in dismay.

  She felt more than heard the hurried footsteps coming toward her. Snapping the box closed, she stuffed the hand that held it into her pocket.

  “Stop playing!” the automaton worker shouted.

  The calliope went silent. Marie turned to see Christophe and the automaton close beside her.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “It is not supposed to play that song.”

  “It must be part of its catalogue of music,” Christophe said.

  “No.”

  Christophe raised an eyebrow, but the automaton did not explain. The calliope began a lively jig.

  The automaton stared at it flatly for a long moment. Marie sat upon the bench, gazing at the instrument with an expression of interest. She wanted another moment alone with the calliope, but it was not to be.

  The boat’s steam whistle blew its throaty chord, momentarily drowning out the music. The automaton stepped toward Marie.

  “That is the signal for departure. You must leave the boat now.”

  No regrets or expressions of civility. As worker-passengers would need no courtesies, this machine had apparently been given none.

  Aching to stay, Marie took Christophe’s arm and descended the two sets of stairs meekly. Desperate thoughts of concealing herself aboard flitted through her mind, but she gave them up as quickly as they came to her. It would not do. She and Christophe were being watched.

  The foreman was nowhere to be seen, nor were any of the crew save two sailors preparing to unmoor the boat. A massive stack of crates stood upon the dock.

  Christophe turned to the automaton as they reached the gangplank. “Thank you for the tour.”

  The machine gave a curt nod, watched them walk down the plank, and turned away. Marie looked up toward the calliope. Its music ceased abruptly as the boat’s whistle blew again, and the Calypso’s crew cast off.

  She watched it glide away, silently promising Immanuel that he would be freed.

  “How can you be certain?” Mary Dessins’s face was drawn with worry, though her eyes had lit with hope at Marie’s news.

  “Nothing is certain, but I feel strongly that Immanuel is being held aboard the Calypso. Possibly in a room that houses controls for the calliope...”

  Marie’s confidence faded on that thought. Why would his abductors hold him in a room that housed controls of any kind? She glanced at Christophe, sitting beside her in the Dessins’s parlour, drinking the weak coffee offered by their hostess.

  “What can we do?” Mary asked.

  “As before, madame, you must remain out of reach of your enemies,” Marie said. “I will act for you in this.”

  “But how?”

  “I intend to board the boat in secret.”

  Christophe frowned. Marie ignored him.

  “By chance, did you ask your friend the mayor about Moma Shanti?”

  Mary nodded. “He knew nothing, but sent someone to inquire.”

  Christophe inhaled sharply. Marie knew why. Such inquiries were often incautiously conducted.

  “And?”

  “She is the mistress of Mr. White. A former slave, and by some accounts a witch.”

  Not a witch. A queen.

  Marie did not bother to correct her; this was no time for explanations of the culture of voudon.

  “Does she live in Galveston?”

  “She has a house near the Strand, apparently.” The disapproval in Mary’s voice implied that Moma Shanti’s house was not in a genteel neighbourhood. That told Marie something.

  Marie looked at Christophe. “We will need to hire a boat.”

  “To take us to Whiteston? Madness. The whole town will know of it.”

  “Why Whiteston?” Mary asked.

  “It is where the Calypso is now,” Marie told her.

  Mary’s face became thoughtful, then she looked up, her gaze firming with resolve. “I can transport you to Whiteston.”

  Marie’s heart leapt. “You have a boat?”

  “No.” A slow smile lightened Mary’s face, and showed the steel of her character. “A blimp.”

  Christophe raised an eyebrow. “Is that what that rather large shed behind your house is hiding?”

  Mary nodded. “We have not used it lately, but yes.”

  “How long will it take to prepare it?”

  “Not long.” Mary rang the bell at her elbow. “Our groundsman, Jonas, will be delighted to hear we are taking it out.”

  “Can you pilot it?” Marie asked.

  “I know how. I will bring Jonas along — he is adept at it.”

  “No, no — you must stay in safety —”

  “Marie. This one thing I can do for you. I do not propose to go aboard the boat, but if I can be nearby when you free Immanuel...”

  Christophe smiled in sympathy. “May I come with you as well? How many will your airship carry?”

  Mary pressed her lips together. “Five will be a burden, but it can be done, if we abandon all our ballast. I will show you.”

  Mary led them to the shed, where a sleek gondola rested amid a clutter of pipes, tanks, and a very large bundle of silk. Marie gazed in awe at the vessel. She had always thought airships were huge, unwieldy things, but this one was small and slim. The whole gondola was silver-coloured, as was the bundle of silk.

  Christophe turned to Mary and asked, “How far will it fly before you must take on more fuel?”

  “We flew it to San Antonio once. Much depends on the weather, of course, but Whiteston is hardly distant. Jonas, do the winds favour us?”

  The groundsman looked skyward, tilting his head. “They are off the Gulf, about five knots. We will use some fuel returning, and we will have to tack a bit, but it should be no trouble.”

  “How soon will the ship be ready?” Marie asked.

  “An hour or two. No more than three.”

  “In two hours, then, we shall return,” Marie said.

  Mary insisted on having her carriage convey Marie and Christophe to their hotel. The sun had set, and the sky was a deep, glowing blue.

>   Once in their room, Christophe took Marie by the shoulders. “What are you scheming?”

  She kissed him, then pulled away to remove her bonnet. “I have told you. I will slip aboard the Calypso and find Immanuel. Draw the curtain, cher.”

  Christophe went to the window and twitched the drapery into place. “And then?”

  Marie thought for a moment. “We may have to jump overboard. We should make sure Mary brings a rope.”

  “Are you mad?!” He strode back to her. “What if they have guns?”

  He was right, of course. She had not thought of guns. She frowned.

  “What would you have me do? I have promised my help.”

  “Let me do it, chérie. All right,” he added as he saw her reaction. “Let me go with you onto the boat, then.”

  “More people, more chance of attracting attention.” Marie began to unfasten her dress. “A woman alone is often ignored.”

  “But they will know you. They have seen you.”

  “They have seen a prosperous Creole. I will go as something different.”

  Christophe moved to help her undress, his fingers brushing against her back, sending tingles along her skin. “And if they suspect you? What if they imprison you as well?”

  “They would not dare, I think, to confront me. Not in the guise I mean to take.”

  “I wish you would let me help you.”

  She turned in his arms, her loosened bodice falling away, “There is one thing you can help me with. Escort me on an errand before we return to Mary’s house.”

  “An errand? You expect a place of business to be open at this hour?”

  Marie smiled. “Oh, yes.”

  The street was darker than the Strand. Lights glowed in windows of some of the houses, many tinted a lurid red. Marie was undismayed. After all, she had once lived in a neighbourhood much like this one, before her rise to power and prosperity. She had once battled other queens for territory. She was unafraid, but still glad of Christophe beside her, and also of the small knife in her pocket.

  She wore the simple blouse, skirt, and plain shoes that she had worn aboard the Coeur Chérie during the sea voyage, with her hair piled in a lump atop her head. Christophe had also donned his plainest clothes, ones he had brought for fishing. They still looked somewhat more prosperous than most of the folk here, but they did not appear out of place. A few white men ranged the street, but the majority of the people Marie saw were coloured.