ARC: The Buried Life (13 page)

“And what does he know?”

“That,” Madame Attrop said with a smile, “is the question.”

Jane paused, mulling over the new information. “You’ll forgive my ignorance, but this is all rather shocking. I was under the impression that whitenails lived charmed lives. You can see what a wreck the murders of the past week have caused, after all.”

Lady Lachesse smiled. “We live, bleed, and die, too. We just try to make everyone forget that.”

“Councils change,” Jane said. “What happens to Roman then?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a way to manage. He had better.”

“You must understand, dear, what he does on behalf of very powerful people,” Madame Clothoe warbled, stroking Jane’s arm.

“Well, what does he do?” Jane asked.

A nasty sneer crept across Fredrick’s face. “I trust you’ve noticed that a certain… odor lingers about Mr Arnault?”

“The clove cigarettes,” Jane said, reluctantly turning back to him.

“Yes, but do you know why he smokes them?” Fredrick asked. Jane waited in the pause that followed. “They kill the gag reflex and cover the stench. For a bottom-feeder, see?”

“It’s funnier if you don’t have to explain it,” Jane said.

Madame Attrop interceded. “Mr Anders has just regaled us with a common, if unflattering, joke about Mr Arnault and the unpleasantness of his work. With the exception of Lady Lachesse and a couple others in this room, few could say with specificity what Mr Arnault does,” she said. “This, you will agree, is part of where he gets his power.”

Madame Clothoe winced at them. “They say that he commits murders for the Council,” she whispered.

“And he has never tried to deny it,” Madame Attrop added quickly.

“Of course he wouldn’t,” Lady Lachesse said. She smiled slowly. “And as much as he depends on his air of mystery, I can’t fault him for guarding it. I doubt he has gone that far, but I can regale you with one story that is true, if you want to know what kind of man he is.”

“Please,” Jane said.

“It happened several years ago. Councilor Ruthers and certain investors had entered into a bargain with a metallurgist named Oxley to develop a lighter alloy for railcar construction. After the others had financed these efforts, Oxley realized he had developed a much better product than he’d anticipated, and he reneged on his agreement with the intention of selling the composition on his own.

“Expecting retaliation, Oxley hid his notes and samples well before this became known. He had also arranged a chain of middlemen through which he could sell his alloy to factories outside of Recoletta. He planned this scheme for months. The point is, it was obvious that Oxley had protected his creations well enough, so Roman didn’t steal from him. He stole from Azari.” The look on Lady Lachesse’s face was not quite admiration, but it was close.

Jane blinked. “Azari?”

Lady Lachesse nodded. “Azari was a rival metallurgist. Not only did he and Oxley compete in their formulae, but they also competed for patronage from investors such as Councilor Ruthers, so you can imagine Azari’s furor when he realized that months of his labor had vanished and that he would have to produce an explanation to a rich and powerful patron. Imagine that furor when news of Oxley’s plans surfaced.

“Along with the other members of the metallurgists’ guild, Azari believed that Oxley was also selling his alloys to the foreigners. It didn’t help matters,” Lady Lachesse added with a grin, “that Azari had found a broken pair of Oxley’s spectacles in his shop. Before long, Oxley was wondering whether selling his designs would bring him wealth or ruin. When another guild member’s formulae disappeared, he began to fear for his life.

“Ultimately, Oxley gave up the scheme. He surrendered the designs to his original investors, and the metallurgists’ guild retrieved the missing compositions from his study. He did leave Recoletta, but without a penny of the fortune he had hoped to earn.”

“I don’t understand,” Jane said. “Why go through so much trouble when Ruthers could have had him arrested?”

Lady Lachesse smiled again. “To make an example. Besides, Councilor Ruthers isn’t the kind of man that likes to have the Municipals involved in his business when he can help it.”

Jane exhaled, and as her attention broke from Lady Lachesse’s tale, she was almost surprised to see the rest of the partygoers still dancing and the attendants bringing out new trays stacked with delicacies. “It’s quite a story. You’ll pardon my curiosity, but how do you know that Roman was behind it?”

“The new designs were installed on her railways, dear,” Madame Attrop said. “She was one of the principal investors.”

Lady Lachesse placed her empty glass on another passing tray. “I told you this story to give you an idea of how Mr Arnault operates – cleverly and in the background. I don’t think he’s a killer, but I know he’s devious. Still, he’s no worse than most others here, and I can’t blame him when so many of us profit from his exploits. But come now, this is unsuitable talk for a party. Let us continue to merrier subjects, shall we?”

Chapter
7

The Other Side of the
Ballroom

In the week before the gala, Liesl Malone’s preparations had begun not with etiquette lessons, but with covert meetings. She could hardly expect the Council to issue her an invitation, so she and Sundar had devised other means.

Like any good machine, a party consisted of several moving parts. For Malone, inserting herself into it was a matter of identifying the weakest of these components and applying leverage. Ticking through her options, she knew it wouldn’t be security and it wouldn’t be food. Both the guard detail and the catering would run like clockwork. This left service and entertainment. Malone did not relish the idea of taking more orders than necessary from the whitenails, so she and Sundar set the first option aside and explored the latter in her office.

“Seems like our only choice, but going in with the performers isn’t as subtle as I’d like,” she said.

“It’ll be easier than you think. Besides, you’ve got a cellist’s fingers.”

“But not a cellist’s training. How do you know so much about the orchestra?”

Sundar scratched the back of his head and looked away. “I, uh, know a violinist.”

“How well?”

“Old acquaintance from my performing days. Let’s just say I’m not in any position to ask favors from her right now.” He coughed into a fist. “It’s, uh, complicated. Anyway, don’t worry about the playing – you won’t have to.”

“I’m not hiding in the cello case.”

“Better,” he said. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a folded but crisp sheet of paper and spread it on her desk. “You have an invitation.”

“Except that isn’t my name.”

He shrugged. “That can be fixed. This is just a performer’s invite, so it’s not printed on the fancy stuff.”

Malone bent over the square. “This is how you upset the violinist?”

“All in the course of duty, I’m afraid.” Sundar sighed and ruffled his forelocks.

Malone looked at her watch. It wasn’t yet eight in the morning. She smiled slowly. “She might not be upset if you’d stayed for breakfast.”

Sundar grimaced. “Too right. But then I wouldn’t have made it here.”

“Is she going to know you took it?”

He relaxed. “Not a chance. I’m surprised she hadn’t lost it already, knowing how often she’s misplaced her instrument. It’s a good thing she doesn’t play the triangle.”

“Do they check invitations against a master list? If so, we’ve got another paper to forge.”

“No, not the last I heard. There’ll be a few stand-ins and changes anyway if someone gets sick. Or if a second-chair performer shapes up. You’ll blend in as long as you wear something black. For you, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“That takes care of the doorman, but what about the orchestra? Someone will notice I’m out of place.”

“Just show up at the door five minutes late and look apologetic. You’ll miss the musicians completely.”

Malone sat back in her chair and nodded to Sundar, who looked supremely pleased with himself. “There’s only one more problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t have a cello.”

“Of course.” Sundar tapped the edge of the desk. “I know where we can get one, though. On loan. I know someone who runs a shop.”

“Another ‘acquaintance’?”

“Different kind. But you have to bring it back, or I’ll be paying for it over the next year.” He sighed, rubbing his chin. “The doormen will point you to a back room when you enter – it’s where the musicians gather. You can leave the instrument there and pick it up again on your way out. They’re all professionals, so no one will touch it.”

“Wonderful.” Malone stretched her lean arms, drawing a deep breath and looking around her office and its spartan furnishings.

“Come to think of it, there is something else.” Sundar gave Malone a doubtful frown.

“Yes?”

“After you clear the door, if you don’t want to look like a fugitive performer, you’ll have to… uh… wear a dress.”

She swung her arms back down to the desk. “I know.”

“I mean, not just any dress, a nice one.”

“It’s covered.”

“A really nice one.” He leaned forward, eyes wide and serious.

“Sundar… I’ve got it.”

He sat back, looking unconvinced. “OK.”

Malone sighed. “We won’t be able to do this forever.”

Sundar blinked. “Plan in your office?”

“No. Investigate this contract, right under the Council’s nose.”

“I thought we were being discreet.”

Malone shook her head, but her pale eyes remained fixed on him. “Sooner or later, they’ll notice.”

Sundar frowned, lines creeping across his handsome face. “What’s our endgame? If we don’t figure it out and the Council realizes that we’re still snooping, they’ll… what?”

“Suspend us.”

Sundar exhaled dramatically. “Fantastic. They suspend us. And if we do get to the bottom of it, we uncover the mystery and whatever Council secrets go with it, they’ll shake our hands?” He tilted his chin at her.

“I don’t plan on getting caught. They’ll need more than a suspicion to punish us. Besides, I think we can count on support from certain members of the Council when we reach the endgame if we can prove ourselves. And I’ve got an idea of where to start.”

“And that’s what you’re going to look into at the gala?”

Malone nodded, pursing her lips. “That’s part of it. I’m going to make a few other inquiries.”

“Is that safe?” Malone could tell by the wrinkling of Sundar’s brow and his frown what he thought of the idea.

“They’re not going to suspend us for making conversation. Not as long as the forgery’s good, anyway.” She tapped the invitation. “It’s when we get serious that we’ll need to be careful.”

Sundar’s eyes widened. “I can’t wait to see what you consider serious.”

Malone planted her elbows on the desk. “Soon, we’ll need to find someone we can trust. Someone with access to the whitenails. An informant.”

He tapped his temple. “So we can stay out of the Council’s line of sight.”

“Precisely. I’m looking for someone who comes and goes in their circles without being noticed. Someone with a wide network of contacts. Any ideas?”

Again, Sundar frowned. “Roman Arnault?”

“Try Jane Lin.”

A wry grin crossed Sundar’s face, half amused and half dubious. “Jane Lin, drugged laundress?”

“The same.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Malone. I can’t see her sneaking into directorates or swiping invitations.” He waggled the creased paper in the air between them.

“I can. She just needs the right incentive.”

#

Whereas Jane had entered Brummell Hall via the full splendor of the veranda, Liesl slipped in through a quiet back entrance designated for staff and musicians. As Sundar had assured her, the door guards admitted her without too much fuss, and she left her borrowed cello in a quiet salon reserved for the performers. She pulled a smuggled evening dress from the cello case and made her transformation. With a bracing breath, she turned back down the hallway and into the ballroom.

Swirling in the room, she saw secrets. They sulked in corners, they glided across the dance floor, and they stood huddled in discreetly chattering groups. The partygoers who did not recognize her were suspiciously closed to her, and the few who did know her even more so. Secrets, hovering just out of reach and scattering like moths from a lantern.

She saw plenty of familiar faces, but none that would be glad to see her. The buzz was all about the fashionable delegation from South Haven, or rather, how they might pass for fashionable were they not from such a wretched little hamlet, wearing robes the color of dried blood. Malone was finding little of use.

She knew of one lead. The Council, now accompanied by the South Haven delegation, talked animatedly at one end of the room, expertly cordoned off by a ring of hangers-on. Satellite attendants floated in and out, but the tended flock lay just out of reach. Most importantly, the one member that Liesl truly wanted to meet with, Alfred Hollens, stood in the thick of it.

He seemed to her trained eye more insulated than his peers. Appropriately to one so tightly enclosed, he also seemed more uncomfortable. Was it the heat of so many bodies lending the tell-tale sheen to his forehead, or was it something within? There was a distinctive undertone of tension in the group of politicians, not unusual for such a gathering, but there seemed something hotter and ranker mingled with it – fear? Was it only her own suspicion, or did a number from both sides of the group, including Hollens, seem beleaguered with the sticky-warm churnings of vain, primitive fear?

That would be difficult to determine without a closer look. But Hollens was lodged in the group like a cog in an engine. Hollens, the head of the Directorate of Preservation, the councilor who might have explanations for the secret projects, the man who, in his delicate state, might be prodded into sharing them, seemed at this juncture the hardest to reach. Malone’s considerable experience had taught her that in such cases, it was better to lure the target than to chase it.

She watched as he drained a green-tinted martini and broke from his protective throng to signal a passing waiter. Receiving his instructions, the waiter nodded and made a beeline for the kitchen as Hollens retreated again into the human insulation. Malone hovered just out of sight of the Council throng as she waited for the server to return. When he did, she had to step in front of him to get his attention, so focused was he on returning to the councilor. She moaned, a look of painful anxiety on her face.

“The washroom?”

The waiter blinked and pointed to a side corridor, unaware of her hand quickly passing over the martini glass to deposit a clear pastille as she gripped his shoulder. Bobbing her head gratefully, she hurried toward the bathroom with convincing haste. She planted herself in front of the men’s room, telling the few baffled guests who approached that they would have to seek relief from the toilets on the other end of the hall until these had been thoroughly cleaned. From that removed position, she monitored her handiwork.

The waiter delivered the tainted martini to Hollens, who promptly transferred it to a larger man with the look of a well-trained ape in a tuxedo. The simian assistant gingerly sipped the martini and, smacking his lips, returned it to Hollens. The pastille, a light emetic, would only just have begun to dissolve, and its convenient lack of flavor and color would escape suspicion.

Hollens had finished his martini well before she saw him cough and sputter, raising a hand in protest to the simian-man’s alarm. Nothing too distressing, just the nerves of a long evening finally getting to him, and he begged the pardon of his companions for a moment. With admirable composure, he scurried to the facilities to relieve the sickening churnings of fear, which had at last manifested themselves physically.

Aware that he would not be allowed to follow Hollens into the bathroom, the simian assistant trailed his master to make sure that no one else did.

Hollens reached the toilets without a moment to spare. He heaved his head over the appropriate depository as his restive insides surrendered their contents. After he had finished, he rested a perspiring temple on the cool wall, recovering. His reaction was one of astonishment when he saw a plush white towel held inches from his nose. The protest died in his throat as Malone pressed the towel into his free hand and addressed him coolly.

“You’ve had a long week, Councilor. I can see the pressure has finally brought itself to bear on you.”

“Madam, I don’t know who you are, but this is highly inappropriate. I must ask you to leave,” he said, rising.

“I want to help you.”

“The towel will be plenty. Please go.” Hollens crossed to the washbasin and splashed his face with water. He averted his gaze from Malone the way one would avoid looking at a madman.

“I need to know what you know.”

In the mirror, Malone saw Hollens’s eyes flicker toward her over his cupped hands. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“The murders, Councilor. Something is happening among your ranks, and it’s already cost two men their lives.” A dark look crossed his features, replacing the embarrassment and confusion.

“Our guards have this situation under control,” he said, bringing another handful of water to his forehead.

She gestured at the empty bathroom. “Are you sure?”

“We have protocols, Madam, and they are none of your concern.”

“They’re also pointless. You know as well as I that your people have accomplished nothing in the intervening week. If I were on the other side, you’d be dead already.”

Now realization and rage scalded his words. “You go too far. I could have you arrested for this.”

“Councilor Hollens, I’m an inspector of the Municipal Police. I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re overstepping your bounds, as I understand it,” he said, patting his face dry. “Your authority has been suspended as far as this contract is concerned.”

“And what good has it done?” she said. “For all the special measures your guards and agents have taken, it hasn’t brought you one step closer to apprehending the killer.”

“It’s a complicated and extensive investigation.” He glowered at her. “Besides, you didn’t do much better.”

“Only for lack of opportunity. We were on the right track, and we were making progress. That’s why we were cut out of the contract so abruptly.”

“No, you were removed because your people do not have the background or the connections to properly investigate it, Inspector…”

“Malone.” She paused, hoping that she wasn’t making a mistake. Sundar, she knew, would be disappointed if their gambit failed for her lack of discretion, especially after their last meeting. “And whose fault was that? I tried with your Dr Hask before Fitzhugh was killed.”

Hollens blinked in surprise. “It is not as simple as facts and leads, Inspector. The information you want is confidential, and as minor as that detail may seem to you, we maintain these protocols for a reason.”

Malone shook her head, the radiance stones shining across her slicked locks. “This is absurd, especially with a traitor in your midst.”

Hollens froze. “What?”

“Why else has your investigation from the inside been so useless? One of your colleagues has been collaborating with the murderer from the beginning. By compartmentalizing and passing the investigation through your hierarchy, you’re playing directly into his, or her, hand.”

“You know this for a fact?” he asked, almost keeping the quaver out of his voice.

“I’d be blind not to notice it. As your investigators have been, apparently.” She cocked her head and leveled her gaze at him. “I suspect that this has at least occurred to you, Councilor Hollens.”

“What reason do I have to believe that you can be of any use? Especially if you are correct in these preposterous assumptions.”

“You and your peers have cut me off from the contract, and as far as they’re concerned, I’m hamstrung. A lame horse can’t kick the coachman.”

He snorted. “Nor pull the carriage. What do you expect to accomplish?”

“Give me time and information, and I’ll find out who’s behind this. It’s a process of elimination, starting with those who want to see your directorate fail at its project.”

“You think you’re that good?”

“Check my record.”

Hollens mopped the perspiration from his forehead. “If I help you, Inspector Malone, it stays between us. More than the murderers will be after me if anyone gets wind of this.”

Malone shrugged her bare shoulders. “I’m officially off the contract. What you tell me doesn’t leave this toilet.”