Spence shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait, and snagged them a couple of menus. They ordered omelettes—and hash browns, bacon, biscuits, coffee, and a milkshake, for R7—before getting down to business.
“So,” Spence said halfway through her omelette, “I managed to dig up some information about Ludwig Von Krauss.” R7 nodded encouragement, washing down a bite of biscuit with coffee. “Well, he was a professor at the University of Munich, specializing in applied mathematics. His theories were pretty crazy—he didn’t publish much, and no one really took him very seriously. But after the War, he finally got some attention because his graduate student, some fella named Franz, disappeared, and Von Krauss was suspected of murdering him.”
“Huh,” said R7, swallowing a mouthful of chocolate milkshake. “Suspected—so, he wasn’t convicted?”
Spence shook her head.
“He disappeared after that. Left a note denying everything and saying he’d prove he didn’t do it. Some pretty crazy stuff in there. I’d let you read the note, but—well, do you speak German?”
R7 polished off the last biscuit before attacking the milkshake again.
“Sure,” she said after another gulp. “Does it say anything about the robots?”
Spence shook her head again, frustration pulling her eyebrows together as she finished her last bite of omelette and pulled out a mimeographed sheet of paper with cramped handwriting on it.
“See for yourself,” she said.
R7 took the paper and read through it quickly, still not relinquishing the milkshake with her other hand. False accusations, I would never hurt Franz, she read. Prove my innocence...Find out who’s responsible...They are the only ones who can help me now.
She stopped abruptly, rereading the last sentence.
“Who’s ‘They’?’” she asked Spence.
“No idea,” Spence answered with a shrug. “That’s all we have from him. The next thing we know is that the first robot turned up in New York a month ago, just before you and G3 got to town.”
R7 sighed and sucked the last few delicious chocolate drops through the wide straw.
“Knowing that, I’m not sure the robots are even related to his past,” she said. “The note was years ago, and his robot plan, whatever it is, must be pretty new. Percival said Von Krauss sent him the designs, and Percival’s so young that there’s no way Von Krauss would’ve heard of him till recently.”
“Percival?” Spence asked, surprised. “You mean Professor Gregory?”
“Yeah,” R7 said with a faint smile. “Oh, by the way, I had the disabled robot sent to him in case it speeds up his work on using the antenna to track the operator. Operators,” she corrected herself. “I gave him a number to call the switchboard if he figures something out. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that was good thinking,” said Spence. “But unfortunately, it doesn’t tell us anything about Von Krauss.”
The two of them lapsed into reflective silence for a moment, and R7 sat back in the rickety diner chair, handing off the job of handling her enormous meal to her stomach while her newly fueled mind tackled the task at hand. She considered what they knew for certain, ticking off the facts on one hand. Von Krauss was a mathematician, and he was accused of murder. He disappeared, saying he wanted to prove his innocence and that ‘They’ could help him. But then turned up years later pulling smash and grabs with robots. It just didn’t make sense—none of it fit together. And try as she might, she couldn’t even find a hint of a picture emerging from all the disparate pieces.
Frustration and despair overflowing, she leaned forward again, planted her elbows on the table, and dropped her head into her hands, kneading her fingers in her hair. How the hell am I supposed to figure this out? she thought. She had no idea what she was doing, G3 was in the hospital, and even Spence didn’tknow what was going on. The Chief was right—she really was on her own. No one could help her, and—
—wait.
Her spiraling self-pity drained away in an instant, and she looked up to find Spence watching her with concern over a small mountain of empty plates and cups.
“Help,” said R7.
“Um—I’m trying,” said Spence, “but—”
“No, no,” said R7, sitting up straight again. “Von Krauss. He was a two-bit math professor and then he was a fugitive. There’s no way he had the materials, the place, or the money to build those robots without help. A lot of it, from someone loaded.”
“Makes sense,” Spence said, pushing her glasses up her nose as she listened. “So?”
“So, maybe They helped him,” said R7. “Maybe he did what he set out to do—he found Them. And They’re helping him prove his innocence or whatever—and bankrolling the robot project, whatever it is. Maybe he’s doing that not because it’s helping him with his murder charge, but because he’s working for Them.”
“That’s...as good a theory as any, I guess,” said Spence with a shrug. “But that doesn’t shed any light on who ‘They’ are. Or why they went to the trouble of having robots built to steal things.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that yet,” R7 said. “But I am sure that this has the mob’s fingerprints all over it. So maybe They are connected, or maybe they’re a friend or an enemy of someone who is. But either way, that’s where I’m going to start.”
Spence smiled.
“Just as I suspected,” she said. “You think better on a full stomach.”
R7 smiled back.
“Now let’s see if I punch mooks better, too.”
“I’ll leave that part to you,” said Spence.
“Peachy,” said R7, standing up. “I’ll leave the part where we pay for dinner to you.”
Chapter 17—Seeing Red
Alger leaned against the doorway to my room, giving me a look that was somehow suspended between a frown and a smirk as I unpacked my small suitcase in our new house in Paris.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m considering strategy,” he said obliquely.
“Yeah?” I said eagerly. Did he actually want my opinion?
“As I told you and the boys, I believe Yvonne Devereaux is the most reliable route to the box now that we’ve lost Kingston’s trail,” he said.
“Right,” I said. “The Baroness.”
“Indeed. And as I mentioned, I’d prefer not to make unsolicited contact with an associate after our last experience. So instead, I intend to make a truly extraordinary name for our merry band here in Europe and raise her curiosity sufficiently to secure her invitation. I’ll be asking more of everyone—you, most of all.”
“Alger,” I said, “why are you telling me stuff I already know? You know I never forget anything.”
He paused, looking pointedly at my suitcase, and I just shook my head in puzzlement. He gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Come with me,” he said, and I scrambled to my feet as he walked off. I followed him into his room, where I found him rifling through a drawer.
“What’s going on?” I tried again.
“Well,” he told me, “I’d always hoped you’d figure this out on your own, but apparently it’s going to take a more active intervention.”
He turned around and handed me a ridiculous amount of money and a card with a hand-written address on it. I stared at him dumbly, shaking my head to indicate that I still had no idea what he was talking about.
“Your talents are many and varied, my dear,” he said, “but apparently dressing yourself isn’t one of them. Go see Marie, and give her this and my name. She’ll give you a good start on a wardrobe.”
Oh. So, just clothes. I tried, and probably failed, to hide my disappointment.
“So…what do I—I mean, is there anything in particular I should get?”
“Just pick what you like to begin with, and she’ll take it from there. And while we’re on the subject of picking what you like—you’re going to need a last name.”
“You mean…” I felt the old panic rising in my throat. �
��But I can’t just make one up, can I? I mean, I already have a name, I just—”
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said gently, taking my hand. “When you remember, you can change it immediately. But for the moment, if I’m going be introducing you to clients as my associate, I’ll need something to call you.”
His associate. I could get used to that.
“Alright. I’ll think of something,” I said, squeezing his hand and giving him a little smile before heading out the door.
“Victoria, wait,” he called, stopping me as I rounded the corner.
“Yes?” I turned around expectantly, my heart leaping to attention.
“Take the twins,” he said.
“Right,” I said, turning away before he could see my face fall in childish disappointment. “Of course.”
And I left.
In the car, excitement quickly replaced the sweet, secret agony of talking to Alger. It only took me about five minutes to start pestering the twins.
“So,” I asked the Torpedo, who was sitting in the back with me, “how come you never shoot anyone?”
He looked surprised.
“Why? You got someone that needs shooting?”
“No, no,” I assured him. “I’m just curious. I mean everyone says you’re such a good shot, but you never do any shooting. Not even when there are guards and everything. Why bother with the gun if you’re not going to use it?”
“Because I don’t ever need to,” he answered confidently.
“Not ever?” I pressed. “How do you know you’re a good shot then? Did you used to be a hunter, or what?”
He hesitated and looked at Big Six, who’d turned around in the front seat to listen.
“It’s okay,” Big Six told him. “You can tell her. She’ll understand.”
The Torpedo nodded and swallowed.
“Well,” he began, “a few years back, we joined the French Foreign Legion. We were stationed in North Africa, fighting the Turks. Not a bad job, I guess, most of the time. But one day, our unit’s coming through this little town. Just a bunch of people, minding their own business, you know. Well the Turks are right on our heels, and our commander says we have to keep moving. We ask him, what about the villagers, right? What are they gonna do when the enemy shows up? And he says it’s their bad luck.
“But we think, that’s just not right. Both of us, we knew what we had to do. So the unit moves out, but we sneak off and wait. When the Turks show up, we kill them. Every man. I gotta tell you, it was the right thing to do, but it was the worst thing too. So after that, I swore never to kill anyone again unless I had to.”
I didn’t say anything for a minute, digesting the story. I guess I’d never even thought about what these guys had done before; in my world, they’d just appeared when I walked into the cabaret that night. Eventually, I just gave the Torpedo a big hug, which he zealously returned. After I caught my breath, I turned to Big Six.
“But what about you? You don’t even touch guns at all,” I pointed out.
They both grinned.
“That’s right,” he said. “After I accidentally shot this fella here in the back in that fight, I thought it wasn’t worth the chance.”
I shook my head.
“So what did you do then?”
“Well,” the Torpedo said, “we were deserters, we wouldn’t really fight anymore, and we were in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t really much we could do, for a while.”
“Once we got back to the states, we got by on gambling and boxing matches, mostly,” said Big Six, taking up the story. “Till the Boss found us. Once he heard our story, he said if we’d work with him, the pay would be good, and we wouldn’t have to hurt anybody unless they really had it coming.”
“And life’s been jake ever since!” the Torpedo finished.
Then, to my delight, they pulled out matching flasks and toasted each other, taking a rather long drink and sharing one with me.
“Okay,” I said, on a roll. “How about the—” I stopped, remembering that the Driver was there, and I turned to him. “How about you? How did you get mixed up in this?”
He smiled.
“Well, time was, I was a taxi driver,” he replied. “One of the first, actually. Did it for years.”
“And then what?”
“Then I have this passenger one day. He’s an odd duck, a Brit. And he asks me—real calm, not like he’s nervous or anything—how fast my cab can go. Well, I tell him I don’t know, and he hands me more money than I can count at once and asks me if I’m willing to find out.” He shook his head, his smile spreading into a grin as he turned the wheel, inching us around the next corner. “I figure out the bulls are following us, but you know, it’s a lot of money. So I take off. By the time we lost them, well…we were in it together by then. I don’t know if he was impressed or just felt guilty or what, but when he offered me a job, I just took it, no questions asked.” He shrugged. “I never regretted it though. And I bet he hasn’t either.”
“Not a chance,” I agreed, remembering the chase after the auction. “But what about—”
“Alright, alright, Vic,” said Big Six, tousling my hair. “Why don’t we just tell you about everyone?” I nodded enthusiastically, and he laughed. “Okay. Who should I start with?”
“How about the mechanic?” the Driver cut in. I nodded again, eager to hear about Screwdriver. “Well, he came with me. Worked at a repair place I used to take my cab to. But after I started working for the Boss, one day I came to pick up the car and I found that handy little stash you emptied out under the back seat. I guess he figured from all the damage we might need some help, right? Anyway, I told the Boss about it, and he brought him right in.”
“Then there’s the Doc,” said the Torpedo. “He used to work at St. Charles—you remember, the hospital we robbed and—”
“I remember,” I answered, a little annoyed. If the Doc had worked there, I thought, he could’ve gotten all the information—not to mention the doctor’s getup—in a heartbeat, without putting me through the whole scavenger hunt.
“Right,” said Big Six, not noticing my irritation. “Anyway, he ran across something he shouldn’t have there and got in a ton of trouble. Lost his license, his job, and everything.”
“That’s when the Boss picked him up,” the Torpedo added. “I don’t know how he even knew him, but you know the Boss. He knows everybody.”
Smitten admiration crept back in to replace my frustration.
“And our disguise artist,” said Big Six, ticking Shifty off the list, “now the truth is, he didn’t start out as a friend.”
Big Six nodded. “It was at a job—well, we’ve only heard this part, because the Boss went on his own, actually.”
“But he was going to this vault to get one of those journals,” the Torpedo said, “on an inside tip. So he meets the guy he’s been talking to on the way in, and he gets inside no problem, but when he’s on his way out, he gets a gun in his face, and the fella says to hand it over or he’ll shoot.”
I felt terrified just thinking about it, remembering our recent experience with Tony, but Big Six laughed. “So what do you think he did? The Boss took his gun—right out of his hand, just like that—and pointed it back at him.”
“And then,” the Torpedo said, “instead of shooting him, he says he’s impressed that the shifty bastard replaced his pal without his noticing! And then he asks who he’s working for and how much he’s getting paid.”
I shook my head again, mystified that he could be so civil after something like that. If someone points a gun at me, I thought, I don’t think we’re ever going to be friends.
“I guess that’s everyone,” said Big Six. “Except ‘Disappearing Act,’ of course.”
The Ghost.
“What about him?”
The twins looked at each other as if to ask if either had information the other didn’t, and then they both shrugged.
“We don’t know,” said the Torpedo. “H
e’s always been there. He and the Boss go way back.”
I opened my mouth to ask exactly how far back they went, but by then, finally, we’d arrived at our destination, and the Driver let us out. Walking into the little shop with “Marie Riviere” emblazoned on the door, we must have made quite a trio. As I started to poke around, a timid assistant approached with obvious trepidation.
“Can…I help you, mademoiselle?” she asked me.
“Yes, please,” I responded, glad I’d been practicing my French. “I’m looking for Marie.” She glanced from me to my intimidating companions, who were trying their best to look innocuous. “It’s okay,” I promised her. “They’re just friends.”
Still unconvinced, but apparently too afraid to object, she nodded and scurried off through a back door. After the rustling and whispers subsided, another woman swept out into the room. In her early thirties, strikingly beautiful, and well-dressed, she was as confident as the assistant had been reticent.
“So you asked for me. That’s brazen of you,” she said, her accent crisp and perfect. She looked me up and down dubiously, ignoring the twins, while I struggled for words. “Well, you’re certainly gorgeous enough. On the other hand, you have no idea what you’re doing. In fact,” she gave me another calculating look, “you don’t even know who I am, do you? Which means…yes. Who sent you, then?”
Galled by her pointed and accurate assessment, I blinked a couple of times, gathering my thoughts, before I finally spoke.
“Alger Slade,” I eventually managed to say.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Liar,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “No one’s heard from that bastard in years.”
“Don’t you call him that!” I snapped, sudden ire obscuring my better judgment.
“Why shouldn't I?”
“Because he’s the best person I’ve ever known,” I hissed, anger flaring hot in my veins. “I’ve known him for over a year, and he’s been nothing but kind to me.”
She pursed her lips, her gaze still shrewd.
“Well you certainly behave like many of the women he’s known. At least when they first get to know him,” she added drily. “What did he say when he sent you?”
Canon in Crimson (Symphony in Red Book 1) Page 13
