“My arm hurts and you two can manage. I’ll cover you.”
There was a yell from the entry hall, and a shot sounded moments later, followed by the screams of frightened attendees. “Pulanski?” Gomes bellowed. “What happened?” He started towards the door, but stopped as a uniformed figure appeared, revolver leveled.
“Hands up, boyos!” the policeman, Muldoon, called out. The other two men turned at this, and Alessandra took the opportunity to scramble away.
Gomes sprayed the doorway, forcing Muldoon to duck out of sight. “Get the thing, Tony,” Gomes shouted. “Head for the back!” Phipps and Jodorowsky did just that. They hurried towards the far door, while Gomes steadily emptied the drum of his weapon. When the air was full of dust and splinters, he turned and galloped after the others.
Alessandra, crouched behind a piece of toad-like statuary, watched them go. She considered pursuing them, but only for a moment. She spied Muldoon huddled against a doorway as he reloaded his service revolver. “Looks like they skedaddled,” he called out, to no one in particular. He had a cut on his chin, and his uniform was mussed. “I got one of them, though. Plugged the bastard through.”
Confusion reigned in the exhibition room. People were shouting questions, or crying, or hurrying for the doors. She could hear sirens in the distance. And she could see Whitlock, staring in her direction. As he started pushing through the crowd towards her, she got to her feet and hurried towards the doors.
She felt a twinge of guilt for not saying goodbye to Visser, but he’d understand. She had no wish to become involved with the police. And certainly no wish to speak to Whitlock. No doubt he was already attempting to figure out how to blame this on her.
She spotted the dead robber – Pulanski – laying in the middle of the floor, crumpled into a ball. Muldoon had indeed plugged him through, as he said. The crowd was giving him a wide berth, flowing around him like a rock in a stream.
She was out the door and moving towards the street, one more face in the crowd. Police cars pulled up, sirens wailing, lights flashing. Alessandra didn’t wait to see what happened next.
Pepper was standing on top of her cab when Alessandra reached it. She was craning her neck, trying to see. “What happened?” she called out as she hopped to the ground.
“A robbery,” Alessandra said. “We need to go. Now.” She slid into the back.
Pepper clambered behind the wheel. “A robbery? That explains the cops. Sure you don’t want to stay?”
“Definitely not.”
“Because they might ask questions?”
“Yes. Among other reasons.”
“Fair enough. Weird time of day for a robbery.” Pepper sniffed. “Right in the middle of everything like that? Seems like they were asking for trouble.”
“No. It was smart, if crude. The more confusion, the better. Every eyewitness will have a different story.” Alessandra shook her head. “I knew I should have brought my pistol.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I did not want to explain why I had it, if someone saw it.” Alessandra pulled her cigarettes out and selected one. A mote of blackness passed across her eye and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear it. She hoped it wasn’t glass. That was the last thing she needed.
“Why do you have it?” Pepper asked. “The real reason, I mean. ’Cause, it ain’t every day I get a gun aimed at me when I knock on a door.”
“I did say I was sorry about that.”
“You didn’t, actually.”
“No?”
“No.”
“My apologies, then.” She extended the pack of cigarettes to Pepper. She thought about not answering, but almost being shot had a way of making her talkative. “I have carried it since the war. I feel… unclothed without it.”
Pepper took the pack and extricated a cigarette with her lips, one hand on the wheel. “You were in the war?” She asked the question softly, carefully. The way one might probe an old hurt, to see if it had healed yet.
Alessandra paused as the memories rose to the surface, even as they had when she’d seen the mummy. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she licked her lips, trying to work some moisture into them. “I was an ambulance driver. Not for long. A few months. Long enough. War is an ugly thing, and much of what comes after is worse.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“I wanted to help.” Alessandra paused. “No, I tell a lie. I thought it would be exciting. And it was, briefly.” She frowned, trying not to think about it and failing. The crack of gunfire, like rain. Fire from the sky. The way the mud caught at your ankles and shins. It was always muddy, even when it hadn’t rained for days.
The smell was the worst of it. It never went away. Even now, it was with her. “My ambulance broke down once. I’d gone too far, run over a crater.” Her voice grew distant as she recalled that moment of blind panic. She swallowed. “Men came hurrying towards me out of the chemical fog. They looked like monsters in their masks. And maybe they were.”
“Germans?”
Alessandra shook her head. “They weren’t on anyone’s side. They were detritus. No better than rats, scavenging from the dead and dying.” She puffed on her cigarette for a moment, remembering. “War makes animals of some men.” She patted her Webley. “That’s when I learned to shoot. We all had guns, just in case. I used mine that day.”
Pepper stared at her. “You shot ’em?”
“Some of them. The others ran.” Alessandra looked at her. “It was luck. Nothing more. If they’d had a bit more courage, or my aim had been a bit worse, we might not be having this conversation.” She was talking too much. Too freely. She knew it and bit back any further elaboration.
Pepper shook her head. “I don’t know that I could shoot somebody.”
“Hopefully, you’ll never have to.” Alessandra flicked her cigarette out the window. She took a long, shuddering breath. She felt as if she wanted to be sick.
“Take me back to the hotel.”
Chapter Ten
The Getaway
As Alessandra climbed out of the cab, Pepper said, “You sure about this?”
“What? Getting out of town before the police come calling? Yes, I rather think I am.” Alessandra looked around. The train station looked no less grim than before, though it was somewhat busier as late afternoon trains arrived and departed.
She’d packed quickly when she returned to the hotel, grabbing only the necessities. She’d made the hard choice to leave most of her luggage behind. Travel light, travel quick, as her father had said. All in all, it had only taken a few minutes.
Pepper frowned. “And here I was getting used to playing chauffeur.”
“If you wish, you may accompany me to Boston and continue to do so,” Alessandra said. She paused, startled by her own offer. “I could buy you a ticket.”
Pepper looked at her incredulously. “You serious?”
“I would not have offered, were I not.”
Pepper shook her head. “No, I- I got things to do here. I got a job.”
“We could find you a better one.” Even as she said it, Alessandra wondered why she was so intent on keeping the young woman close. Better for Pepper – better for her – if they parted ways now, before anyone connected them.
“Not likely.”
“I suspected as much.” Alessandra smiled, somewhat relieved. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Pepper. I trust you will stay out of trouble from here on out?”
“In this town? Not likely, lady.” Still, Pepper hesitated. “I’ll wait. Just in case you change your mind or something, OK?”
“I will not, but thank you.”
She entered the station and was immediately struck by the noise. The stone walls muffled the clattering roar of the trains and the shriek of steam engines. Voices spun about her as men and women hurried towards their platforms, or moved more sedately for the exit. The afternoon crowd wasn’t so large as it might have been in Kingsport or Providence, but it was substantial. She hoped the
re would be seats left on the next train to Boston.
She stopped, suddenly aware of a faint, familiar odor. Like rotting meat. It was the same odor she’d smelled in the hotel hallway earlier in the day. She found her eyes drawn to a hunched form sitting on a bench near the cab rank. A man clad in a dark coat, and a slouch hat. He sat hunched forward in a curious fashion, as if he were afflicted with some congenital deformity or spinal injury.
As if aware of her gaze, his head tilted up. There was something… wrong with the face. A vague sense of abnormality. Then, he rose with a peculiar lurching motion and crept away, vanishing into the crowd of new arrivals.
Bemused, Alessandra turned as a whistle sounded, and steam washed across the platforms. She put the strange man from her mind and hurried towards the ticket office, hoping that someone was on duty. Thankfully, a sleepy-eyed clerk was at the window. As she bought a ticket for the next train to Boston, she kept an eye out for railroad bulls.
It was time to leave. A good thief knew when to go. The artifact was gone, and the police were involved. There was no profit in staying, and a risk that she might be caught. Whitlock knew who she was, and seemed the type to hold a grudge.
She remembered him now: they’d crossed paths once before, but never been formally introduced. His employers had insured a certain collection of antiquities she had plundered on behalf of a gentleman in Vienna.
Best to get out now, before he came knocking. It wouldn’t be long. They’d be questioning everyone who’d been present, comparing their statements. By now, the police might even be knocking on her door, looking to clap her in irons.
The thought of being confined to a cell sent a shiver through her. She had been arrested only a handful of times in her life, and never anywhere that kept records. But it had left a mark nonetheless. To be caught in so small a space, with no way out, was unthinkable. Better to run away, and live to steal another day.
The station wasn’t large, and she chose a bench from which she could observe the entrance. There were a few other people waiting for the same train. A newspaper stand was opening up at the far end of the platform, the vendor unleashing a salvo of great, racking coughs.
She checked the great clock mounted above the platform. Five minutes until the train to Boston arrived. Five minutes to freedom. From Boston, she would go to New York. Perhaps catch a ship for Canada. She knew several people in Canada who were always in need of services of the sort she provided. From there, perhaps back to England, or maybe even Australia. Or maybe she would stay in America, but head west, to California perhaps.
Though she tried not to think about it, her mind kept returning to the robbery. Analyzing it from every angle. She was a thief, and thieves analyzed robberies the way statisticians looked at census data. It had been organized, but sloppy. Four men, enough to cover the crowd and see to the merchandise. Not enough to fully control the situation, however, given that one of them had wound up dead. But a four-way split was easier on the payoff than a five-way or six-way. And four men could work as well as five, if they were willing to use violence.
She had always drawn the line at violence. Not out of any inherent pacifism, but rather because once that line was crossed there was no telling what would happen. She carried a pistol for protection – and had fired it more than once. But never out of malice or intent to harm. Once you saw a gun as a solution, every obstacle became a problem.
She knew of others in her profession who were like that. Violent and lacking in restraint. The Turk, Bayezid, for instance. Or that charlatan, Lampini. They were thieves and worse than thieves. She fancied herself a cut above them, at least. But sometimes… she wondered. It rarely kept her up at night, but she thought about it all the same.
The robbery had been a smash and grab, but the only thing taken was something with no apparent monetary value. Something they’d come prepared to transport. Someone had hired them. That was the only explanation. She had names as well. Gomes. Jodorowsky. Phipps. Pulanski. She wondered if the police had those, yet.
If not, it might be worth it to call in an anonymous tip, when she was a safe distance away. Not out of any sense of civic duty, but rather to ensure that someone like, say, Whitlock, didn’t get it into his head to come after her. America would be no fun at all if she had to spend the entire time looking over her shoulder. She’d had enough of that in Europe.
The bench squeaked. She glanced sideways, and saw a small figure, wrapped in an outsized black coat and battered slouch hat, sitting at the far end. Her heart stuttered slightly as the too-pale face turned towards her and milky, sightless eyes fixed on her for an instant, before a gout of steam from an arriving train momentarily obscured them. She heard the rustle of the coat as its wearer rose. She leapt to her feet and backed away.
She heard the sound of awkward shuffling, and saw the black splotch of a shape moving closer through the thinning curtain of steam. She thought about the pistol in her clutch, but she couldn’t risk it, not here, out in the open. Instead, she looked around for help, but true to the old adage there was never a policeman around when you needed one.
The shape stopped. Alessandra watched it warily, ready to run at the first sign of renewed intent. She heard a low, querulous grunt. Then, a hurried shuffling as the strange figure headed off down the platform. The steam faded, and she saw why he’d been in such a hurry. Several police officers were approaching her bench.
Quickly, she made her way across the platform, towards the edge of the station where she sought cover behind one of the brick crenulations that lined the walls. The jutting brickwork was decorated with carvings – historical scenes, perhaps. It wasn’t quite large enough to hide behind, but it would serve well enough. She was still close enough to make a run for the train when it arrived.
More police appeared. There were five of them now, milling about the platform, observing the waiting passengers, even questioning some of them. She felt a cold knot in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps they were looking for the robbers. Then she saw Whitlock questioning the newspaper vendor, and knew she was out of luck.
She cursed softly and turned, looking for an unobtrusive way out. If she could make it outside, Pepper might still be waiting. She weighed the odds and stepped out into the open. No shouts, no whistles. A train was pulling in, not hers. She could board it anyway, and plead confusion when the porter came by to check tickets. Decided not to risk it. Too much open space to cross, and Whitlock was already turning around.
She hurried towards the far entrance, trusting in the momentary chaos of the train’s arrival to mask her exodus. Passengers disembarked, adding to the noise. She joined the trickle of early morning arrivals, head down.
And bumped into Officer Muldoon. He reached automatically to steady her, an apology on his lips. His eyes widened. She stomped on his foot and slammed her valise into the side of his head, sending him stumbling.
He cried out as she darted past. Running in heels was a chore, but better that than slowing down to take them off. She wished she’d changed into her working clothes before attempting to leave, but a woman dressed like a bricklayer would have attracted more attention than she was comfortable with.
Muldoon was on his feet, shaking his head. The other policemen were converging on her. She didn’t see Whitlock, thankfully. She needed to get out of the station, put some distance between her and her pursuers.
As she wove through the crowd, she spotted a black figure, hunched and moving towards one of the platforms with spider-like quickness. “Where do you think you’re going?” she murmured, following him. Whoever he was, if he knew of a way out, she intended to make use of it – unsettling as he was, the police worried her more.
He led her to the edge of the outer platform, where he vanished over the side. He was escaping across the tracks. She glanced back. They hadn’t spotted her yet. She’d rung Muldoon’s bells hard enough that he hadn’t seen which way she’d gone.
She climbed carefully down on to the tracks, and followed the b
lack-clad figure towards the flatcars in the distance. Then on past them, to the coach yard. His intentions were obvious, now. There would be places to hide there, among the empty passenger cars. At least for an hour or two. Every so often, he glanced back. Did he know she was following him? Is that what he’d intended?
She heard a shout behind her and turned. She spied a flash of blue and bit back a curse. Muldoon. He’d recovered more quickly than she’d thought. Her eyes flicked down to her valise. She’d stowed her clutch in it. A few moments, and she could have her pistol in hand. But what then? A shoot-out with the police wasn’t the sort of thing a smart thief engaged in. She kept moving, trying to keep her unwitting guide in sight. He was moving fast, for so crooked a figure, and she lost sight of him more than once. The switchyard was an industrial labyrinth. Great boles of fiber bound for textile mills rested under waterproof tarpaulins. Refrigerated cars, mercifully empty of fish, sat waiting to be pressed into service. It was no wonder her black-coated friend had sought refuge here. It would take the police hours to search it.
The sun slipped behind a gray pall, and a chill drizzle began to patter down, stinging her cheeks and the back of her neck. She pulled up the collar of her coat and concentrated on not slipping in the gravel and mud. Workmen ambled past at a distance, paying her no mind.
The coach yard was claustrophobic, with walls of iron rising high above her. Lines of filthy windows glared down at her as she followed the tracks. She considered boarding one, but something about the shadowed confines of the cars made her hesitate.
A whistle pierced the air. Gravel crunched beneath running feet. That decided the matter for her. She steeled herself and climbed aboard one of the cars. Needs must, when the Devil drives.
She sank down, hiding among the seats and waited.
Chapter Eleven
Teeth
Alessandra sat on the floor of the train car in silence, wishing again that she’d chosen to wear her work clothes. Her dress wasn’t the most comfortable attire for the current situation. She shifted, trying to ease the ache growing in her limbs and back.
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