The Jacq of Spades Read online

  “My kids are alive now because we have work from the Clubbs,” another man said.

  Several people nodded.

  “You’re too young to remember when this city was tore apart by the gangs,” an old man said. “The Families beat them back and brought the city peace.”

  Several cries of “Yeah!” came forth from the crowd.

  A middle-aged man rose. “I know who you are. You’re Bridgers! You and your axes destroyed my Grampa’s saloon when I was a boy, about near killed him. I’ll listen to no more of this!” He spat and walked out, to applause. I recognized him; it was the man Roy whispered to at the house this afternoon.

  So that was why Roy felt so pleased with himself.

  Mr. Pike said, “Please … please just sit and listen to what I have to say …”

  But the roar of the crowd made him impossible to hear. An apple knocked his hat off, and Mr. Pike retreated.

  Most people walked out. Some went up front to talk with him (or at him). The woman in the gray dress handed out pamphlets … which looked suspiciously like the one Roy threw at me.

  I watched the scene for some time. If enough people left, would Mr. Pike speak to the crowd which remained?

  The tent creaked in the wind.

  More people went to the stage than I expected, which was somewhat concerning. Roy was right: I was beyond my understanding in this matter. Killing Mr. Pike, while it would have been easier, would have not only proved his point, but made him a martyr to his cause.

  A fight broke out near the stage and a whistle sounded in the distance. I moved to the side of the tent, not wanting to spend the evening questioned by the police. A constable entered the tent and I ducked underneath the canopy. Whistles and scuffling continued behind me as I stepped around the tent posts.

  Stars shone that winter’s night. My breath left in clouds matching those passing high above the city near the full moon. The landscape resembled a photograph in grays and blacks: dark, yet lovely. The lights of Clubb quadrant twinkled in the distance across the river. A zeppelin passed by, farther still, and I watched its journey. Then I walked further from the tent to lean against an unlit lamp post, taking a cigarette from my handbag.

  A voice, from behind. “Light that for you?”

  It was Mr. Pike, of all people. I let him light my cigarette, trying my best not to laugh.

  I pitched my voice lower; I was a middle-aged widow. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t pretend.” Something in his eyes and voice made me think rather than seeing me, veiled and high-necked, he saw me as I looked at our previous meeting. “When you went under the canopy rather than through the tent door as any usual woman would, I recognized you.”

  I stared at him, afraid. “Why are you here?” Had he approached to unmask me? To humiliate me further?

  “I could ask the same. Did you want to see how well your little trick worked?”

  I felt relieved. “Mr. Pike, I knew nothing of the ‘trick,’ as you call it; I wanted to hear what you had to say. You may not believe it, but I agree with many of your points.” I took a drag of my cigarette through my veil and blew smoke at the uncaring stars. “Unfortunately, we’re not always free to do as we wish.”

  Thrace Pike’s face, half-lit by the moon, seemed both resolute and sad. “We’re always free to do what we wish. Either way, there are consequences we can’t escape.”

  I could say nothing to that.

  The wind gusted, and my veil blew up, exposing my face. I pulled it down again, securing it better this time.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, raising his hand.

  I shrank from his touch. “You were free to publish your pamphlet, as you wished. Either way, there were consequences I couldn’t escape.”

  Mr. Pike stood still for a long moment, staring past me, his jaw tight. Then the set of his face changed: he had come to some definite decision. He took hold of my upper arms, which shocked and surprised me so much I did nothing.

  “I will not surrender. If your husband, or your father-in-law, or whoever sent that mob wants war, then war I will give them.”

  I stared at him, stunned. “By yourself?”

  “If that’s what it takes. I will see this city restored to one where law, not crime families, rule. Where people can move about their city safely, not limited by checkpoints and retribution. Where everyone has an equal say and a man can advance in life with honesty, not crawl in servitude to some trumped-up self-appointed monarchy.”

  Could he really mean this? I saw no subterfuge in the man’s eyes. He could publicly humiliate me one day and lay hands on me another, speaking lofty words as he did so, without any guile.

  He gazed into my eyes for a long moment, and he seemed then to realize where he stood and what he did. He let go.

  I turned towards the river, relieved. “Noble, even admirable.” The man seemed determined to get himself killed. “But the Families will never allow changes in the way matters stand.” I faced him. “You don’t realize how dangerous these men are. If you oppose them, they will destroy you.”

  “We shall see.” Mr. Pike tipped his hat. “Good night, madam,” he said, and walked away.

  * * *

  I made my way home, slipped in the back door by the breakfast room, and up the winding back stairs. I cracked open the door at the top of the stair. To my relief, our night footman wasn’t there. A glow came from around the corner, and I realized the man patrolled the hallway.

  I crept into the darkened hall, opened Tony’s door, and went in. Tony snored in his bed, slowly and loudly, with slight hitches in his breathing, as if something was stuck in his throat. It frightened me: he had never sounded like this before.

  I hurried into my closets, taking off my dress, hat, and shoes in the darkness, listening as Tony snored. I found myself holding my breath, waiting … waiting … waiting …

  He wasn’t breathing.

  I ran to the bed in my drawers and chemise, stockings still on. “Tony! Wake up!” I shook him, but he didn’t breathe. “Help!” I grabbed the bell-cord and pulled it.

  The night footman rushed in. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s not breathing!”

  He stood, stunned, then turned to the maids behind him. “Call the doctor!” Feet ran down the hall as I continued to shake Tony’s shoulder. “Lift him up,” the footman said, so I did so.

  “Tony! Tony!” His head sagged forward, his lips dark and bluish. I shook him. “Wake up!”

  Maids rushed into the room, screaming and crying. “Get out of here,” the footman said. “Give him air.”

  Give him air? I leaned over, took a breath, and put my mouth on his, blowing as hard as I could. His chest rose sharply.

  “Uhh.” Tony grimaced. “Ohh.”

  My vision blurred. “Oh, please, Tony, wake up.”

  His head slumped forward again, and the footman helped me sit him up better. “Do that again, breathe to him,” the footman said, so I did so, harder.

  “Aaaah!” Tony’s chest rose. “Ow!” His eyes were closed, and his head lolled, but he took a breath on his own.

  I never felt so grateful to see someone breathe before.

  We held him upright for some time, and I breathed into him when he needed it. “Oh, Tony, please wake up.” I didn’t know how much longer I could do this, and it frightened me.

  Shoes came stomping up the stairs, along the hall, as the footman and I held Tony up straighter. He hadn’t breathed again, so I blew in his mouth as hard as I could.

  At the same time, I heard the door open behind me. “What are you doing?” Dr. Salmon said.

  “He’s not breathing, Mrs. Spadros is breathing to him. It seems to help,” the footman said.

  “Uhh, ah,” Tony said.

  “He looks better,” I said. His lips were pinker.

  “Dealer preserve us,” Dr. Salmon said, shocked. “How much opium did he take?”

  Did I do this? I shrugged, mouth open, shaking my head, feeling close to
tears.

  The footman said. “Do that breathing again.”

  I breathed in until my chest felt ready to burst, grabbed Tony’s face, and blew with all my might.

  “Aaaah! Stop!” Tony yelled, and opened his eyes: his pupils were tiny, his eyes full of tears. Their unnatural form terrified me.

  “You weren’t breathing, sir,” Dr. Salmon said. I glanced at the doctor; his shirt tails were loose around him, his jacket and vest open, his hair wild, as if he galloped straight here without a hat.

  Tony focused on him. “What?” Then his head slumped to the left as his eyes closed.

  “Did he have any alcohol?” Dr. Salmon appeared more concerned than I had ever seen him.

  I nodded. “Two glasses of wine that I saw.”

  The doctor shook his head. “We need to get him up walking.”

  By this time, Pearson had entered the room, dressed, but barefoot, with his hair uncombed. So the footman and Pearson got Tony up, walking him around the room as he snored.

  Pearson glanced at me. “Where is Amelia?”

  Now I knew how he kept order. She had been crying in the hall but dashed in.

  “Tend to your mistress at once,” Pearson said.

  Amelia stared at me blankly, then grabbed my robe and covered me with it. It was then I realized my state of undress.

  I sat on the side of the bed, my face in my hands. If I had returned five minutes later, Tony would be dead.

  “How long ago did he take the opium?” Dr. Salmon said.

  I stared up at him. “Right before dinner.” What time was it now? “An hour and a half, maybe two?”

  “Dinner was at eight, mum,” Pearson said, as he lugged Tony along, who still snored. “It’s well past ten.”

  Dr. Salmon shook his head. “Too long ago for an emetic.” He went to his bag and took out a device, listening to Tony’s chest for several seconds, then let out a sigh of relief. “His heart is sound. It just needs to work through him.” He moved some of the vials around in his bag, then came up with a tiny bottle containing yellow powder.

  I watched as the doctor moved to Tony’s tea table and took out a small set of brass scales. He measured a tiny amount of the yellow powder. He peered at me over his shoulder. “Was his appetite good? What did he eat?”

  I stared at Dr. Salmon, not remembering what we ate.

  “We had pork roast,” Pearson said. “With winter peas and fatback.”

  Dr. Salmon nodded. “The heavy meal saved him.”

  The Threat

  Dr. Salmon dosed Tony with a purgative, yet it was many hours before he felt safe to leave us.

  I couldn’t sleep. I might have killed Tony, and it haunted me.

  The doctor stayed in a guest room, returning every few hours to listen to Tony’s heart. Tony woke with a terrible headache, dreadfully ill, and little memory of the night before.

  “You must never drink alcohol when you take opium,” Dr. Salmon said. “I told you this before. And no extra doses. Do you hear me? If your wife hadn’t been awake, you’d be dead now.”

  We sat in Tony’s room. Tony, bent over his tea table, leaned on one elbow. He nodded, his face pale and sweaty. But his breathing was normal, as were his eyes. I never wanted to see them look that way again.

  Dr. Salmon got up and paced around the room, stretching his arms over his head. I held a damp washcloth, wiping Tony’s brow.

  A soft knock came at the door, and Dr. Salmon opened it. Michaels came in with a tea tray, and Tony gestured for him to put it on the table.

  Dr. Salmon put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “The liquids will help, sir. As much as you can drink for the next day or two.” He glanced at Michaels. “Get him a pitcher of water.”

  “Yes, sir.” Michaels poured a cup of tea for each of us then left, while Dr. Salmon went out into the hallway.

  Tony leaned back and sighed. “The last thing I remember is holding your hand at dinner.” He gave me a weak smile. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  I brushed his hair back from his face. “I’m just glad you’re better,” I sobbed.

  “Ah, now,” he took my hand and kissed it, “all will be well.” He took his cup of tea with his other hand and drank it down. “See? I’m obeying orders. Being ill is thirsty work.” He smiled. “Let’s see the mail.”

  I wiped my face, then took up the stack of Tony’s mail and sorted through them. “Here’s one from your father.”

  Tony opened the letter and read through it, scratching his arm from time to time.

  “Hmm. Your wayward reporter, what was his name … Peak?”

  “Thrace Pike.”

  “Oh, yes, Pike … well, Mr. Pike has been outed as a Bridger.”

  “Dreadful!” Tony expected some reaction, so I gave it. I hoped the mob chased Mr. Pike home.

  “We won’t be having trouble from him for a while.”

  “Why is that?” I felt grateful that Tony said “a while.” Rivers are such a final place to end up.

  “This morning, Mr. Pike asked to be taken on as a law apprentice at his grandfather’s firm and was accepted.”

  “Really?” Mr. Pike was more resourceful than I thought. But if his grandfather wished to apprentice him, why did Mr. Pike become a reporter in the first place?

  Tony began to sweat and looked pained; his stomach was hurting him again. Michaels and I helped him to his feet. “In any case, learning law should keep him out of our hair for a while.”

  I wasn’t so sure that this was a hopeful development. Mr. Pike the reporter had to submit his work to an editor, who could quash the story. Mr. Pike the lawyer could become a major threat, and lawyers tended to be more difficult to get rid of.

  * * *

  Stephen never arrived at our next meeting. Although I strolled along the train station bag area for over an hour without seeing anything unusual, I had the feeling I was being watched. So I did what I always did when followed: I went to a bar.

  The Pocket Pair, while disreputable, had an excellent staff, very good food and drink, and an owner more than willing to help a lady in distress, especially if the lady happened to be me.

  Vígharður “Vig” Vikenti was a burly fellow, a bouncer until Roy’s men shot the original owner for being late on his protection money. Vig took over the bar, changed its name, got some “working girls“ in the back rooms, and became an upright, paying member of Spadros society.

  Even twenty years later, a look of displeasure from Vig sent the toughest men backing off in fear. So while it appeared to be the sort of place to avoid, I enjoyed visiting.

  Vig liked me, and not in a fatherly way. But he’d never been crass about it. He kept several girls in my size working the back rooms who were happy to trade dresses for a day or two and discreet enough not to blab.

  I was sixteen and on my first case when Vig saved me from violation and assault, beating the man senseless with his bare fists. Since then, we had been “buddy friends,” and he always knew who I was no matter what I wore.

  So when I came in the door, he yelled from behind the bar, “My buddy friend! Come let me give you a drink!” The man playing ragtime on the piano didn’t miss a beat. Then I realized our night footman sat playing!

  I felt astonished. But I couldn’t stare at the man or he would surely wonder why, or look my way and perhaps recognize me. So I ignored the people eyeing me curiously — I was veiled and wearing mourning, after all — and walked through the smoke-filled oak-paneled room to the bar.

  “You’re in trouble again,” Vig said, in a tone at least 100 deci-Bels decreased in volume. I nodded.

  He gestured to another man to take over the bar, then escorted me to a back room and closed the door. The delicious smells of his mother’s cooking wafted through the air. “Tell me what troubles you.”

  I raised my veil. “I think someone is following me.”

  He walked out, closed the door behind him, and came back several minutes later. “Man in brown across the street, standing
with a smoke. Keeps watching the front. Looks like a cop. I’ll take care of it.” He examined me. “I got a new gypsy gal, just your size. She’s got some nice dresses. I’ll send her in.”

  “Thank you, Vig.” I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “One day we’ll sit and drink together, I promise.”

  “You always promise.” He winked. “You go home to your Manor. Vig will keep you safe.”

  He left, and I mused about good friends and promises. A woman came in, a bit older, but with brown hair and a similar form, carrying a basket. Perhaps a bit shorter and heavier, but I could slouch. I switched dresses with her without learning her name. She grinned when she saw my boot-knife on the left and my revolver in its calf holster on my right, and smiled in earnest when I gave her the half-dollar.

  “Your face.” She handed me a small looking-glass. “Use rouge or lip paint on it, then powder it, and it will look better.” She patted the lip paint over the marks of Roy’s hand, which were turning green, then applied another coat of powder.

  It did look better.

  “I’ll have your dress sent in a few days. Thank you.”

  She nodded. “You were never here.”

  I went out the back as a fight broke out near the front, spilling into the street. I chuckled as I strolled back to Madame Biltcliffe’s.

  She in turn laughed when I entered her back door. “Today you are a gypsy?”

  “Vig will send your dress.”

  “Ah. Then you had trouble. You are safe?”

  I smiled. “Yes, I am safe. And grateful for your concern.”

  But I rushed home, fearful.

  Neither Madame nor Tenni spoke of a message from Stephen, and someone followed me to Vig’s bar. I didn’t want to have anything to do with the police, nor to have the young man fall into their hands. I didn’t relax until I stepped inside my home and Pearson closed the door.

  “Mum,” Pearson said, “a constable is here to see you.”

  * * *

  Constable Paix Hanger: a tired-looking man in a rumpled uniform, navy blue with brass buttons. He stood in my parlor as if he’d rather be anywhere but Spadros Manor. He seemed familiar.

  I neither removed my hat nor lifted my veil. I had decided to wear a veil until my face healed, to keep unwanted questions at bay. “May I help you?”