by Dan Willis
The New York Aerodrome was a complex of buildings and towers built on the southwest end of Manhattan Island. Dozens of airships docked daily, delivering passengers and cargo to one of the busiest cities in the world. Alex followed along in Barton’s wake as a never-ending stream of officials, porters, and aerodrome crew escorted him through the terminal to the elevator that would take them up to the Merryweather high above.
Alex had seen airships all his life, swimming through the sky like flying whales, but he’d never been this close to one. The aerodrome had a glass roof and Alex looked up at the massive vessel suspended in the air, high above. It was long and cigar-shaped with a large passenger gondola hanging beneath its bulk and heavy gasoline engines protruding out from its body. It was an awe-inspiring sight.
Someone said something, and it took Alex a moment to realize the words were directed at him.
“Your ticket, sir,” the uniformed steward said again. He was an older man with white hair and a thick, white mustache.
Alex fumbled for a moment with his pocket, then produced the ticket.
“You have a stateroom,” the white-mustached steward said after examining his clipboard. “Number eleven. Enjoy your voyage.”
Alex thanked the man as he took his ticket back, then stepped on the elevator beside Barton.
“Exciting, isn’t it?” the sorcerer said, nudging Alex with his shoulder.
Alex had to admit that, in truth, it really was.
3
The Journey
A young steward in a dark green uniform jacket and a pillbox cap took Alex’s ticket and his lone bag, then led him down a well-lit stair into the bowels of the massive craft. The Merryweather was an American airship, built by the Goodyear Company, and had two passenger decks. The lower deck had staterooms and large viewing areas for first class passengers, while the upper deck had mostly seats and a cafe for regular travelers.
“Right along here, sir,” the steward said, leading Alex past a row of wooden doors that gleamed with polish. Each door was narrow, and they were spaced relatively close together, a testament to how compact each stateroom was. A second row of doors occupied the opposite wall, across a wide hallway, which gave plenty of room for the crew to move about with luggage and other necessities.
“How many staterooms are there?” Alex asked as they went.
“Thirty,” the young man said. “Fifteen on each side. Here we are, sir.” He took out an elaborate key and opened the door to stateroom eleven.
“There’s a call button on the wall next to the light switch,” he said as he took Alex’s bag inside. “Just ring if you need anything.”
Alex looked into the little compartment as the steward set his bag on the couch that occupied one wall. It was a tight fit to be sure, but he’d stayed in worse places. There was a series of drawers on the wall opposite the couch, beside a mirror and washbasin, with a tiny bathroom beyond.
“When is dinner?” Alex asked, passing the steward a fiver as the young man exited the stateroom.
“From six to eight in the observation lounge,” he replied as the bill vanished into his pocket. “We’ll be stopping in Philadelphia to take on cargo around eleven and we’ll arrive in Washington at eight the following morning. Would you like a wake-up call?”
“Seven,” Alex said as the steward handed him a brass key on a fob with the number eleven stamped on it.
“Very good, sir.”
The steward nodded and left, hurrying away along the wide hallway. Alex watched him go for a moment, then realized he hadn’t asked the man where the observation lounge was. Since he hadn’t passed it on the trip to his cabin from the aft boarding ramp, Alex assumed it was farther toward the nose of the airship. Since he had no real need to unpack, he shut and locked his door and continued forward.
The wide hallway between the rows of staterooms ended in a set of double doors with the words, Observation Lounge, engraved into a brass plate on each door. Beyond was a large, open area filled with sunlight. All of the exterior walls were made of glass and even though the Merryweather was still moored to the Aerodrome tower, the view was amazing. Round tables were distributed throughout the room, and already some of the passengers had claimed many of the ones nearest the windows.
“Excuse me,” Alex said, stopping a young woman in a white jacket and green skirt. “When are we going to depart?”
The girl looked toward a large clock mounted above the doors Alex had just come through.
“In about ten minutes,” she said.
Alex looked around at the seating.
“Where should I sit to get the best view?” he asked.
“Well. that depends,” the girl said, her face taking on a conspiratorial aspect. “Do you want to see the city or the ocean?”
“Ocean.”
Alex had seen plenty of the city in his lifetime. The girl’s expression slid into a grin and she nodded to the windows behind Alex.
“Port side then,” she said. “You won’t see the sun set, but the reflection on the water is amazing.”
Alex thanked her and headed toward an empty table up against the port side glass. Even with the ship moored in place, he could see Empire Tower and even a bit of the Chrysler Building off in the distance. At that sight, his mind drifted to Sorsha. He was still angry that she apparently didn’t think enough of him to make him a priority in her life, but that feeling faded quickly. She was a sorceress, after all. A powerful and influential woman whose time, attention, and opinions would always be in demand.
“Maybe she’s better off without extra entanglements,” he muttered.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Barton said, interrupting his thoughts. The Sorcerer slid into the chair on the opposite side of the little table. “I was hoping you’d already got a good table, and this will be quite satisfactory.”
Alex shot him a sly look.
“Benefits of not having all that luggage to unpack.”
Barton laughed at that, offering Alex a cigarette from a solid gold case.
“I don’t bother unpacking for one night,” he chuckled. “My trunk is up in the hold. No, I was talking to the captain. They usually expect me to sit at his table during dinner, but since this is your first trip I wanted to have dinner with you and watch the journey. I explained to the captain I couldn’t make it.”
Alex lit the cigarette he’d selected from Barton’s case, then offered the other man a light.
“I hope he’s not upset,” he said.
“It’s not exactly an international incident,” Barton joked. “Besides, I smoothed it over with a bottle of Château d’Yquem, ’88.”
Alex gave the sorcerer a blank look.
“A very expensive bottle of Bordeaux, Lockerby,” he said with a grin. “Now that you’re becoming a man of wealth and position, I’m going to have to put some effort into refining your palate.”
Alex wasn’t sure he wanted his palate refined. He really wasn’t a man of wealth or position either. The only reason he could afford his fancy office address and the apartment that went with it was his work with Barton. On his own, he’d probably still be in his comfortable mid-ring office on the east side. He’d be doing very well for himself, to be sure, but not get-an-office-in-Empire-Tower well.
“None of that,” Barton said, reading the expression on Alex’s face. “You work with the greatest sorcerer in the world, you solve murders in the greatest city in the world, your clientele is among New York’s elite, and you’re dating one of the most beautiful and powerful women on earth.”
Alex rolled his eyes at that last one, making Barton eye him intently.
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked. The question had a tone of mirth in it, but no malice.
“It’s…involved,” Alex said, not wanting to air his dirty laundry in a public place, even one as nice as the Merryweather’s lounge.
Barton let out a laugh and leaned over to slap Alex on the shoulder.
“Don’t let her throw you, kid,”
he said. “I know I don’t look it, but I’m over one hundred years old. Now, I don’t claim any great propensity toward wisdom, but one thing I’ve learned for certain is that anything worth having is a struggle.” He gave Alex a meaningful look. “You of all people should know that. After all, you started off in an orphanage, were taken in by a priest, without anything to your name, and now look at you.”
“A man of wealth and position?” Alex said, not really believing it, but knowing it was what Barton wanted to hear.
“Just so,” Barton confirmed. “You didn’t come all this way by accident. You did it the same way I did it, the same way Edison did it, and even the same way Sorsha did it, by pure stubbornness and hard work.”
Alex couldn’t argue with that. He’d come a very long way from the Brotherhood of Hope and his little basement office in Harlem. No one had done it for him; he’d had to fight and claw for every inch. He stayed late, came in early, and took whatever cases came his way. He’d once found a dog named Lady Barkley — it wasn’t glamorous, but he did it.
The clink of glasses pulled Alex back from his thoughts. A blonde waitress in the white shirt and green skirt uniform had just set down a round bottle of some dark liquid and two glasses.
“What’s that?” he asked as Barton removed the crystal stopper and began pouring out.
“The first step in expanding your palate,” he said, passing Alex the glass. “This is Louis IV cognac, aged for over 100 years. It is…” he held the stopper under his nose and inhaled, “exquisite.”
Iggy was a bit of a connoisseur of cognac, but Alex had never head of this brand. Once Andrew passed him a glass, he swirled it around for a moment before taking a sip.
He had to admit, the Sorcerer wasn’t wrong.
Before he could comment, there was a heavy clank that echoed throughout the airship, and Alex had the sudden sensation that the ground under his chair was moving. Outside the window, the Merryweather began to rise up, gaining altitude as it moved to clear the city.
“We’re off,” Barton said. He tapped out his cigarette and left it in the ashtray. “This calls for ceremony.” Reaching into thin air, he produced a humidor about the size of a standard cigar box, opened it, and offered Alex a cigar.
As the airship rose, Alex trimmed the cigar with Barton’s pocket cutter. Far above them, the massive engines began to turn, their propellers gaining speed until they became just a circular blur of motion. As the thrum of the engines began to vibrate through the cabin, the Merryweather slowly turned south. In the window, the cold, gray waters of the Atlantic came into view along with Lady Liberty, holding her torch aloft in the light of the fading sun.
“Like this,” Barton said, pulling Alex’s attention from the window. He dipped the end of his cut cigar into the cognac, letting it sit for a moment while the tobacco leaves soaked up the brandy.
Alex moved to copy him as Barton extracted the cigar, tapping the excess moisture from the tip.
“It takes a bit to get it lit when it’s wet,” he said, holding the cigar in the flame from his lighter.
When Alex finally got his cigar to light, he was surprised at how the taste of the cognac infused the tobacco smoke. He hated to admit it, but he could get used to traveling with Andrew.
“What did I tell you, Alex,” the Sorcerer said with a prodigious grin. “Stick with me and I’ll make a proper world traveler out of you.”
Alex and Andrew sat, smoking their cigars and watching the sunlight on the water far below. When their meal came, the light had shifted from gold to red. By the time the plates had been cleared away, the sea had vanished into the blackness of night, and the Merryweather hung in the air like a bat in a dark cave.
The waitress who collected their plates said that once the dinner service had been cleared away, the cabin lights would be lowered so the stars would be visible. Alex decided he wanted to stay a while longer and stare out at the dark ocean below, while Barton excused himself to go read in his stateroom.
The moon had been up before the sun set and when the cabin lights went down, Alex could see its silver light sparkling on the tops of waves far below. It had a hypnotic, soothing rhythm that set Alex’s mind to pleasant drifting as he watched.
“Alexander?” a smooth, feminine voice broke through his reverie. “Alexander Lockerby?” The voice was tinged with a hint of southern drawl and had a husky tone that brought an involuntary smile to Alex’s lips. He turned to find a woman standing at his elbow. She wore a smart, knee-length dress with a button-up panel in the front that was cut modestly but still low enough to be alluring. As his eyes traveled up, Alex found the speaker to be young, certainly in her early twenties, blonde and pretty. She had a roundish face with a broad smile, a pert nose, and eyes that sparkled blue as she smiled. A tantalizing floral aroma accompanied her, and it triggered something in Alex’s memory.
His mind finally catching up with what he was seeing, Alex rose form his chair. He had a good eye for faces, a useful skill as a detective, and he was certain he’d never met this young woman before. She clearly knew him, though.
“Call me Alex,” he said. “Miss—?”
“Pritchard,” she said, her smile getting wider and more charming as she tilted her head. “Zelda Pritchard.”
Alex stepped around her and pulled out the chair Barton had vacated over an hour previously.
“Won’t you join me, Miss Pritchard?”
She demurred, then sat in the offered chair.
“I must confess that I don’t remember meeting you,” Alex said as he resumed his own seat.
Zelda’s smile didn’t waver.
“I’d be offended by that if we’d actually met,” she said with a sly smirk that was more mirth than reproach. Alex waited for her to elaborate but she just kept smiling.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Alex asked, holding his hand in the general direction of the waiter.
“That would be lovely,” she said, her gaze sweeping over Alex with an appraising eye. “You look like a bourbon man.”
Alex found himself grinning in spite of his general confusion about this amiable encounter.
“I prefer my liquor to be old enough to vote,” he said, eliciting a giggle and a raised eyebrow from Zelda as the waiter arrived.
“Whisky it is then,” she said to the man in the white coat, favoring him with her enchanting smile.
“Make it two,” Alex said. “So how is it that you know me?” he pressed once the waiter departed.
She leaned forward, resting one arm on the table and the smirk she’d given him softened into a radiant smile.
“Your perfume,” Alex said, his memory finally putting the pieces together for him. “It’s by Enzo Romero.”
Her smile somehow got wider, and her eyebrows went up for a moment.
“Very good, Alex,” she said. “I love Romero’s work, and this one is a blend of ylang-ylang and vanilla. It’s one of his most expensive.”
Alex had never heard of ylang-ylang, but didn’t bother to ask.
“It suits you,” he said. “I had occasion to be in Enzo’s shop a few months ago; were you there as well?”
Zelda shook her head.
“I was in Milan a few months ago,” she said, deliberately teasing him with the mystery of her identity.
“Then how do you know me?”
“How could I not know the man who saved the treasure of the Almiranta from a gang of desperate criminals?”
That surprised Alex. There had been several news stories about the incident at the museum, and some of them even included Alex, but none had given him more than a passing mention. There was certainly no reason this young and beautiful woman should know about his involvement with the attempted robbery.
On the other hand, three of the glyph runewrights died during the shootout with the police. Maybe someone she knew…or loved?
Alex shifted his right thumb until it touched the inside of the silver ring on the third finger of his left hand. He wished he had
the comforting weight of his 1911 under his jacket, but the bulky weapon would ruin the lines of his tux. If Zelda had ill intent and a partner out in the semi-darkness of the observation lounge, Alex would need to be alert. He resolved that next time he wore his tux, he’d drop his knuckleduster in the pocket, just for good measure.
All of the men involved in the museum robbery were of Mayan descent, which Zelda clearly wasn’t.
That doesn’t prove anything, he chided himself. She could have had a lover who was in on the crime.
“How does such a lovely young woman know about ancient shipwrecks and dusty museums?” he asked, trying not to sound too inquisitive. He made a pretense of looking for the waiter and let his eyes sweep quickly over the nearby tables. Most were empty, but three still had occupants. On well-dressed man and his wife—
Mistress, he corrected. Her clothes are stylish but clearly not up to his standards.
The second table held a party of older women who were sipping sherry and enjoying each other’s company. They were all far too preoccupied to pay any attention to Alex and his enchanting guest.
A lone man in an expensive suit sat at the last table. He had the long hair favored by men of certain Latin countries and it flopped down over his forehead. Dark glittering eyes peered out, beetle-like, from beneath the hair and when he saw Alex notice him, the eyes slid away toward the table of women.
Zelda laughed a musical little laugh that dragged his attention back to her.
“My father is Beauregard Pritchard,” she said, in answer to his question. “He’s one of the biggest tobacco producers in the country, and he simply loves to give his money away to museums and art galleries.” She paused as the waiter returned with two Glencarin glasses full of dark whisky. “Anyway,” she went on, picking up the nearest one, “he decided I needed some culture, so he made me the head of his foundation a few years ago…” She sipped the whisky and closed her eyes, savoring it.
