Canon in Crimson (Symphony in Red Book 1)

by Rachel Kastin

  “Until we meet again, my spy,” he said, and when I turned to answer, he was gone.

  Alone now, I sipped my champagne and tried to look as approachable as possible. By then, I’d generally stopped creating excuses to talk to people, and instead, I’d wait for them to come to me. It usually worked, and Cointreau took the bait almost immediately; it couldn’t have been two minutes before he told della Rossa he’d be right back, and walked over to me. A couple of quick glances told me she was fuming at the slight, and he was none the wiser about it.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, the elongated tones of his accent betraying his southern French origins, “but I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

  “I haven’t ever been,” I said eagerly. “But I’d heard Monsieur Cointreau didn’t mind if people stopped by, and I just couldn’t resist the chance, since I was in town.”

  “Ah, where are my manners?” said Cointreau. “Mademoiselle, Martin Cointreau is the man to whom you are speaking.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t—”

  “Not to worry, ma chérie,” he assured me with a grin. “A lady such as yourself is of course welcome to my humble home.”

  He spread his hands in front of him and swept his arms through the air, indicating that I was, in fact, welcome to all of it. He seemed genuine, if extravagant, and I smiled.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur—”

  “Please,” he said. “Call me Martin.”

  “Well, Martin,” I said, “I must say, your parties live up to their reputation. As does your lovely fiancée.” I glanced over at della Rossa, who was still looking like a beautiful, furious statue. I needed to know what he’d say to that—and I needed to move on. He was an open book, and I was pretty much done with him.

  “Ah yes, Tia,” he said with a little surprise, as if he’d forgotten her. “Yes, well, I’d introduce you, but…”

  I gave him a knowing smile.

  “Perhaps another time,” I said graciously.

  “Well then.” He straightened his jacket and coughed with a self-conscious smile. “Until next time. Do make yourself at home.” He tipped his glass precariously to me in a parting gesture and returned to della Rossa, who was now refusing to say more than one word at a time to him. Sighing, he lit a cigar and put his feet up on his antique glass table.

  Well, no question, he was the perfect mark: so absentminded I’d had to remind him of his own fiancée, so susceptible to flattery he’d forgotten to even ask my name, so distractible he likely wouldn’t notice if I walked right past him with the contents of his safe and waved pleasantly.

  On the other hand, he clearly wasn’t in charge of keeping track of his own stuff, and I still didn’t know anything about this security—or the other people who could be useful in this job, including his enemies, friends, and secrets. But clues to all of those things were bound to be in this room. So I retreated to a corner to avoid further attention, now that I didn’t want it, and kept an eye on Cointreau and Della Rossa.

  I’d finished my champagne and was half-listening to “I Ain’t Got Nobody” playing on the radio a few rooms away when a buzz swept through the room like a fall breeze. Looking at the door, I saw that another couple had walked in: a pale man with a pencil-thin moustache and greased-back dark hair, who oozed slick confidence and charm, and yet another stunning woman, tall, blonde, graceful, and immaculately dressed. What was she doing with him?

  And then something else caught my eye. Cointreau had turned and was watching them closely. His face had changed; his expression was distinctly more serious than when he’d been talking to me. He looked—sad? No, nostalgic, I decided. But there was something else: I saw a definite hint of anger there as well. He hadn’t struck me as the angry type. I caught hold of the nearest elbow I could find and pulled someone over to me.

  “Hey. Who are they?” I asked some fella.

  “You don’t know?” He seemed a little affronted, but I just shook my head.

  “No, but I’d be very grateful if you’d tell me,” I said, hoping the number of drinks he’d clearly already had would make up for my lack of enthusiasm. He grinned at me, and I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

  “That,” he told me, “is Pierre Arnaud, Martin’s business partner for years. And the girl’s Simone Lumière.”

  “And she is?” I demanded, feeling less than patient.

  “I can’t believe you don’t know. That’s Martin’s ex-girlfriend. They split up months ago, but everyone says he’s still sweet on her. Terrific scandal, in the society pages and everything.”

  A girl-stealer. That explained it.

  I thanked the no-longer-useful drunk man and released his arm, letting him stagger back to whatever he’d been doing and turning to get a better look at the scandalous new guests. Circumventing Cointreau and della Rossa, they headed over to another couple: a short dark-haired woman and a rather nondescript, mousy-looking man who hadn’t spoken all night. I started to weave my way across the room to them to get a better idea of what they were saying, but before I got there, I ran smack dab into a man’s chest.

  I looked up to see who I’d run into—and kept looking up and up. The fella was probably six and a half feet tall, with shoulders to match, in an unfashionably pitch-black suit that must’ve been tailor-made. And one glance told me he was carrying a gun. Yet somehow, no one was paying attention to him.

  Well, I wanted to know about the security, I told myself, and I fell right into its hands. I had to decide what to do immediately, so I began in the usual way.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, putting my hand on his arm and looking up at him apologetically. “I wasn’t paying attention at all, was I?”

  He just nodded brusquely.

  “It’s all right, Mademoiselle,” he said, and moved to brush past me.

  I swear, that trick had never failed to at least get me started before—and the collision wasn’t usually nearly as realistic. So I tried harder.

  “No, really,” I told him sincerely, intercepting him and letting my hand drift down to touch his. “I can’t believe I just slammed into you like that. Tell me I can make it up to you.”

  I gave him my best not-quite-innocent look, but he was steadfast.

  “Truly, Mademoiselle, it’s nothing,” he maintained, glancing at his watch. “Please excuse me.”

  What was I supposed to do? I excused him.

  Now, I’ve been told that there are only two reasons a regular fella react like that: money and love. As it turned out, I soon discovered, it was both.

  At first I thought it was just money. This fella was clearly very good at what he did: tough, meticulous, and focused. You’d have to be to keep a job like that, or your boss would get cleaned out by less talented infiltrators than me every day. It looked like he was even on a minute-to-minute schedule (which, I reminded myself, I’d have to figure out before the end of the night). And being that good, I’m sure he was handsomely rewarded for his services. But even if that would have been enough, it didn’t need to be.

  When he reached our host, Cointreau gave him an approving nod.

  “Jackson,” he acknowledged easily, before turning back to an animated conversation with someone else. But della Rossa reacted differently.

  “Gus!” She stood up on her toes and he leaned down to let her kiss him on both cheeks. Her beauty transformed from something subdued and cold into a vivacious brilliance. “Have you been busy tonight? We’ve hardly seen you.”

  He softened as he gently escaped her embrace.

  “It’s a big house,” he told her. “And you know—”

  “Yes, yes, every thirty minutes,” she said with mock frustration, accidentally telling me exactly what I needed to know at the same time. “Always thirty minutes. Some day you should take a holiday from the clock.”

  He laughed and touched her shoulder briefly.

  “I wish I could, Tia. Maybe some day. But now I should really get going.”
r />   She pouted prettily. “Fine, go visit your crypt. But come back soon, or I’ll forget you.”

  He smiled. “No, you won’t,” he said as he walked away and headed out the back door. She sat down again and sighed, turning back to Martin and slowly becoming a statue once more.

  How had no one figured this out? Anyone paying attention would see it in an instant. But then, I realized, thinking about the lack of reaction to his presence, Jackson was basically a servant. He was invisible to them. And Cointreau…well, he probably wouldn’t notice if she ran away with him. I shook my head. I was just lucky enough to be the only one who was watching, I figured.

  I was wrong, though.

  “He’s American too, you know,” said a voice behind me in English.

  I whipped around, maybe a little too quickly for someone who should be at ease here, to find myself facing a square-jawed man with a pinstripe suit and longish hair tickling the tops of his ears, holding a bowler. His smile was disarming, and so was the familiar language.

  “That makes three of us,” I said, before reminding myself not to let my guard down so easily. “And who might you be?”

  “Michael Harrington,” he said genially. “And this is my friend Calvin Emerson.” He gestured to a taller man in a tweed suit smoking a pipe, who smiled and raised his glass to me. “He’s a Brit, but you take what you can around here, right?”

  “I suppose that’s right,” I laughed.

  “Well, fair’s fair, miss,” Emerson admonished. “You know our names. What’s yours?”

  “Victoria Crimson,” I responded before I thought that maybe this wasn’t the time to give my name. But it was too late by then, so I reached out to shake his hand and then Emerson’s. “It’s nice to meet you.” Emerson stepped forward to form a little circle with Harrington and me, and there was general nodding and smiling all around.

  “So, Miss Crimson,” Emerson said, “we saw you watching the large fellow over there and thought perhaps you were looking for company. Have you been left alone?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but alone and available aren’t the same thing,” I replied archly. “My friend won’t be gone forever.”

  “Touché!” He laughed. “But then, you’re saying he’s just a friend?”

  “Perceptive and persistent, aren’t you?” I said. “Well, there are friends, and there are friends, Mr. Emerson.”

  “You have me there,” he said, taking a long pull on his pipe and grinning.

  “You’ll have to excuse Calvin,” Harrington said. “He’s a bit…inquisitive.” I shrugged to indicate that I didn’t mind. The two exchanged a long glance, which I watched with amused curiosity.

  “Something the matter, boys?” I said, letting my tone imply that we were all friends of one type or another now. Emerson nodded at Harrington, and they both took a step closer to me.

  “You seem like a nice enough girl. So, we’ll let you in on a little secret,” Harrington told me, lowering his voice dramatically. “Calvin here is actually a London Bobby. And he’s on official business.”

  This time I went ahead and let my surprise show. I took another little step towards them and let my voice drop as well.

  “You’re really a bull?” I asked Emerson, who nodded solemnly. “What kind of business?”

  “Well, since you asked,” Emerson said theatrically, “I’m here to catch some thieves.”

  My knees almost gave, and I stifled a very real gasp. This was definitely not good. I didn’t even have the wits to try keeping the horrified look off my face.

  “Oh, don’t worry, my dear girl! There’s nothing to fear from them,” Emerson reassured me, catching my elbow to offer his gallant support. “They aren’t the type to point a gun at you or anything. They’re more like cat burglars, really. People say no one ever even sees them rob anyone.”

  As you might imagine, I didn’t find this information reassuring in the least. Harrington now had his hand on my other arm, both of them looking concerned that they’d upset me too much. I was trapped; I had to say something. What did they know?

  “But—” I floundered. “What do they usually steal? And why do you think they’re here?”

  “Oh, at a place like this, it could be anything,” Emerson told me. “But I know for certain that they’re here. In fact, one of them is in this very room.”

  I swallowed.

  “Really?” My voice came out as a squeak.

  Emerson nodded.

  “Yes. And she’s a cunning one.”

  I braced myself, ready to disavow all knowledge of myself, or come up with a damn good story, or run. But then he pointed across the room from behind my shoulder at the little dark-haired woman talking to Pierre Arnaud, the business partner.

  “Ariane Montpellier,” he whispered.

  Relief unwound my knotted stomach, and I resisted the urge to laugh. Naturally, I’d heard of the Montpelliers; they used to be the top of the heap in the thieves’ world. Now, with our Gang around, they were yesterday’s news. I’d call them competitors if I were feeling generous; at the moment, they were looking more like a fantastic distraction.

  “See?” Harrington comforted me. “Not particularly scary, is she? But they say she and her husband are a formidable robber duo.”

  I smiled, letting them see my tension ebbing. But then a thought struck me, and I turned back to Emerson.

  “So if you know that’s them, why don’t you just arrest them?”

  “Excellent question,” he said. “They’re quite good at covering their tracks, and at the moment I have no proof. However,” he said, unable to help himself, “I’m planning to catch them in the act this time.”

  “I see,” I said gravely. “Well, I do tend to hear this and that. I’ll let you know if I find anything out. With discretion, of course.”

  “Of course,” Emerson agreed happily. Harrington raised his glass to me.

  “To spies!” he declared, and we laughed and jubilantly toasted that.

  “What is this about spies?” said a soft voice at my side.

  I barely stopped myself from jumping; it still surprised me when he appeared out of nowhere like that.

  “Nothing, darling,” I told the Ghost, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “These gentlemen were just telling me old war stories. Weren’t you, fellas?” I looked at them for confirmation, and they nodded enthusiastically.

  “Well, please, do not let me interrupt,” the Ghost said, smiling encouragement.

  “Trust me, it’s not a problem,” I said. “In fact, I had just been telling them you’d be back soon.” It was about time for me to escape this conversation anyway, so I turned back to my new friends. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, boys. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” said Emerson, and Harrington smiled his agreement. They waved amiably, and I winked at them as we walked away.

  “Find everything?” I whispered from behind my smile once we’d reached a safe distance.

  “I did, ‘darling,’” the Ghost answered with just a hint of mockery, earning him just a hint of an elbow to the ribs from me. “And you?”

  “Yeah, it’s been a breeze,” I lied nonchalantly. “Now we just have to stick around long enough for appearance’s sake.”

  He nodded, reaching out and getting me another glass of champagne, which he tested and handed over.

  “Then we wait.”

  So we waited. For the most part, the rest of the evening passed without event. I pointed out all the little gems I’d found as they came up—especially when Jackson came through and left through the back door every thirty minutes on the dot, just as della Rossa had said. The Montpelliers left relatively earlier, followed by Harrington and Emerson. Eventually, I decided that we’d seen all we were going to.

  But just as we started to make our way out, a crash shattered the even murmur of voices, and glass splintered into slivers on the floor. The Ghos
t and I whirled to see what was going on. His left hand had already disappeared into his coat, and I could see his fingers wrapped around something. Remembering his shuriken, I had a pretty good idea what he had in mind.

  Luckily, it didn’t come to that. The source of the sound turned out to be my anonymous informant from earlier in the evening, far beyond half-drunk now. He’d thrown his glass to the ground and was berating another guest, grabbing him by the lapels and yelling incoherently at him. I touched the Ghost’s hand lightly, indicating that I thought we were safe, but that I still wanted to watch the situation develop.

  Which it did, very quickly. Without hesitating, Cointreau motioned to a servant, who hurried out of the room. In seconds, Jackson appeared and strode implacably over to the poor idiot, grabbed both his arms, and pinned them behind his back. The drunk screamed his head off as Jackson marched him over to a side door I hadn’t noticed before, yanked it open, and literally threw him out. The sound of slurred French obscenities disappeared as Jackson shut the door and locked it again, dusting his hands off. He and Cointreau nodded at each other, and he left again. Just like that.

  Silence gripped the room for a moment, but then the whispers began, gradually building back up to a comfortable hum. I looked at the Ghost, who blinked innocently as if he would never in his life reach for throwing knives at a party.

  “Maybe this is a good time to go,” I said, slipping my arm through his as if he were a shield.

  “Then let us retreat,” he agreed, turning us as effortlessly as a dancer and heading for the door. “I think we have completed our mission, in any case.”

  Reflecting on the evening, I thought so too. And as we left, I began to believe that maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

  Chapter 21—A Matter of Time

  I checked the clock and found that I had plenty of time to take one last good look in the mirror. It seemed especially important that everything be perfect: last time, I’d needed to fit in, but this time, I’d need to stand out. After all, I had to be able to take center stage at any moment if necessary. So I tamed strands of insubordinate hair, readjusted the straps on my dress, tried three or four different shades of lipstick to match the sanguine red I was wearing, and changed earrings. When I was as satisfied as I was going to be, I looked my reflection in the eyes and concentrated.