Canon in Crimson Read online

  CANON IN CRIMSON

  by Rachel P. Kastin

  and

  Daniel R. Gailbraith

  for Colleen

  Thanks to

  Bates and Baugh for supplying the fuel

  and

  Jake for laying the Foundation

  for Centuries in Decades of fun

  “Midway upon the journey of our life

  I found myself within a forest dark,

  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

  Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say

  What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,

  Which in the very thought renews the fear.

  So bitter is it, death is little more;

  But of the good to treat, which there I found,

  Speak will I of the other things I saw there.”

  -Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy - Inferno

  Chapter 1—A Face in the Crowd

  My story begins in 1919. Well, maybe that’s not right—of course, that’s not when I was born, or—well, I’ll just start over.

  I was born in 1903 in New York, and I can’t tell you much else about that, because I don’t remember it. I don’t know if we had money or not, where we lived, whether I had a pet, or what my parents were like. At the time, I didn’t even know their names. The first thing I remember is searing heat blistering my skin, thick smoke pouring into my nose and throat to choke me, the sound of wood and metal twisting and crashing around me, and careening toward the end of an alley as I ran. That, and someone was screaming, “Run, Victoria!” That’s how I know my name in the first place.

  After that, for a little while, I was one of those people you trip over in the street before you hurry on to your job, your family, your normal life. I guess I was destitute and all that, but to be honest with you, it doesn’t seem important—my real story begins later. I may have been born sixteen years before, but in 1919, I began to live. In 1919, I found Alger.

  In contrast to the fog that obscures my early life, that day stands out in my mind like lightning in a desert sky. It was December first and the air was the kind of cold that could coax you into turning to stone instead of fighting it. But my stomach’s gnawing insistence was even more convincing, and as usual, it talked me into finding someone to steal from.

  Back then, it wasn’t so hard to take what I needed in the crush of the Brooklyn afternoon. I’d spot a mark in the crowd—usually a fella who could afford to keep his clothes clean and his shoes polished—and when I found him, I’d shuffle along, keeping my head down, and reach into his pocket as I brushed past, mumbling an apology for bumping his shoulder. The press of the crowd would be so familiar to him that he wouldn’t even break stride, and I would walk away with his wallet—simple as that.

  On that icebox December afternoon, though, I was looking for a mark, and instead I found competition. Across the river of people flowing down West Drive, I saw him from behind: a slim man of average height in a long, light grey wool coat and a white newsboy cap, shaking hands with a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. There was nothing unusual about that—but then I saw the suited fella’s arm come away from the handshake without the gold watch he’d been wearing before. And next—as if that weren’t enough—the white-capped man reached into the suited man’s pocket and pulled out his wallet, palming it while they were still talking.

  What the hell? I watched as the two men parted ways, outrage warming my cold-stiffened lungs. Why should a fella who could afford that coat get to take what was rightfully mine to steal? And how had he managed to do it while the mark was looking right at him? So, I took off after the thief. It shouldn’t have been hard to track that white cap floating along the river of black, brown, and grey, but it kept sliding out of sight, and I had to duck and weave through the crowd to catch up.

  But I’d made up my mind and blocks later, I finally managed it. By then I knew what I wanted to do: instead of confronting the thief, I would take back what should’ve been mine in the first place. I’d be able to afford my meal for the day, and the thief would learn who got to steal things around here. I circled around until we were walking toward each other, and then as we crossed paths, I used my usual method. As I shuffled away with the mark’s wallet in my pocket now, shoulders hunched and head down, I was satisfied that justice (and my stomach) had been served. Nearly two blocks later, a voice like silk and steel spoke from behind me.

  “That wasn’t bad,” it said.

  I stopped with a jolt. The people around me swore as they nearly bumped into me. How had he even noticed? How had I not noticed that he was catching up with me? And most importantly, what was I going to do now?

  Quickly, I came up with a plan, if not a very original one. What? I’d say, when he demanded that I give the wallet back. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d look as pathetic as possible and hope to be left alone.

  But when I turned around to get my first good look at him, the lie froze on my tongue. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, but he sure as hell wasn’t it. Without the crowd separating us, I found that he was no middle-aged businessman like the mark; in fact, he couldn’t have been older than his mid-twenties. He was a couple of inches taller than me, with a languid stance and comfortable poise that was the envy of my own icy tension. And beneath the brim of the white cap I’d been following so single-mindedly was a face whose beauty alone could have snatched my voice, bright aquamarine eyes set off perfectly by the light grey of his fancy coat.

  I think what struck me the most, though, was his expression. One corner of his mouth turned slightly upwards in amusement, one eyebrow cocked in expectation. But those eyes looked straight through me, sharp with gravity and yet also with compassion. I felt as if I’d seen that look a thousand times, that I was born knowing him, and that he knew me as well. Time stopped; I held my breath. I stood there, words failing me, until I gave up and tried to hand him the wallet, scowling ferociously.

  But the thief didn’t take it. Instead, he laughed, holding up one hand and

  shaking his head.

  “No, you’ve earned it,” he said, giving my ears another taste of his velvet

  English accent. “I meant it; you’re not bad.” He paused for a moment, assessing me with a piercing gaze that would’ve made me squirm if I’d been able to move. “On the other hand,” he said, “you could be better.”

  Normally, I’m sure I would’ve snapped off something defensive. Here I’d been living on these streets for months now, getting along just fine, and some arrogant rich fella was telling me I could be better? But for the first of what would become more times than I could count, something made me bite my tongue. After all, who catches you taking their wallet, calls you on it, and then won’t take their stuff back?

  “Algernon Slade,” said the thief, answering the question and holding out his right hand. After one more long moment of wariness, I took the bait and shook it.

  “Victoria,” I managed.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Victoria,” he said. “I won’t be troubling you again. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”

  He turned to saunter away, and I watched him as he started to melt into the crowd. I had what I’d come for; I should just let him go. But the memories of that half-smile, the sound of his voice, and the impossibly quick-fingered lifts he’d miraculously pulled off stuck in my mind. Somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that letting him go would be letting something vital and life-altering slip through my fingers. And so just before he disappeared completely, I swore and chased after him, still clutching the wallet.

  When I caught up with him, I reached out and grabbed his elbow. He spun on his heel, catching his balance as I pulled
my hand back. He looked at me with that same expression he’d worn before—one eyebrow raised, curious and amused. I crossed my arms and raised my chin, meeting his eyes.

  “Better how?” I asked.

  Chapter 2—Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

  “When I said that you’d have to buy lunch, I didn’t expect you to spend your entire day’s profit in one sitting,” Alger said mildly.

  I would’ve glared at him if it wouldn’t have meant tearing my attention away from my third steak sandwich. He was right; I normally would’ve tried to stretch the stack of dough in the stolen wallet a lot further. But after I’d smelled the mouthwatering simmer of spices wafting out of the restaurant he’d picked, I’d decided to make an exception. And though my stomach was already starting to turn against me for eating a single meal the size of what I’d normally scrounge up in a week, I didn’t regret it.

  “So?” I asked around a precious mouthful of fresh roll. “When you hold up your end of the deal, I’ll know how to do what you can do and then I’ll be able to afford it.”

  I chanced a glance at him and found that he was, of course, giving me an amused look.

  “Indeed,” he said, his left hand toying idly with his fork. “You clearly have natural talent, as I suggested. You simply lack technique. How exactly did you learn your chosen profession?”

  I shrugged, washing down my final bite.

  “I saw someone do it once.”

  Alger narrowed his eyes in thought.

  “Observational learning,” he said. “I suppose it’s as sound a method as any.”

  I nodded.

  “I remember what I see,” I said. “It…helps.”

  “I imagine it would,” he said, raising one graceful hand to signal for the bill. “Well then, Victoria, I haven’t lost my sense of honor entirely, so I’ll fulfill our agreement. It happens that you intercepted me in the middle of a more involved task today. If you’d like, you can accompany me while I complete it, and you’ll have an opportunity to learn through observation again. Would that be satisfactory?”

  It took a beat for me to puzzle that out, but when I did, I nodded enthusiastically.

  “Where are we going?”

  “First,” he said, “both of us will require a change in wardrobe.”

  §

  I nearly had kittens when Alger told me I should spend the rest of the twice stolen money on a coat, a hat, and gloves, remarking under his breath that it was a wonder I didn’t have frostbite already. But when I felt the thick wool wrapping around my tattered dress and shielding my aching fingers and ears from the December wind, I stopped complaining. In fact, as Alger led the way on a long walk to a new-looking apartment building in Clinton Hill, and then on a long climb upstairs to the tenth floor, I found that my feelings towards him were warming along with my hands and stomach. This might not have been my plan for the day, but it was more comfortable and a hell of a lot more interesting. In fact, I’d pretty much forgotten why I was supposed to be annoyed with him by the time he stopped in front of one of the doors and turned to face me with his gorgeous half-smile.

  “So, my young scoundrel,” he said, “if you’re intent on an education in thievery, you ought to know that there are four essential principles of an effective heist. The first and foremost is preparation.”

  “Preparation,” I said. “So the mark from this morning—that wasn’t just random? You set it up?”

  “You’re a quick study,” Alger said. “But the preparation for this next phase is a bit more extensive. Wait here a moment.”

  Before I could ask anything, he unlocked the door and disappeared into what was apparently his apartment. His “moment” lasted nearly half an hour, and I stood in the hallway, shifting my weight from foot to foot and wondering with growing irritation—well, alright, disappointment—if this had all been his elaborate plan to ditch me. But occasional rustling sounds from inside reassured me that he was still there, and when I heard his light footsteps approaching again, I turned toward the door—

  —and someone else came out.

  I leapt reflexively away from the grey-bearded man in an old-fashioned brown suit with a cane, my survival instincts thrumming at the unexpected threat. But the unfamiliar man raised one hand in a newly familiar graceful gesture, and a smooth English voice came out of the stranger’s mouth.

  “I suppose I ought to take that as compliment on the disguise,” said Alger, smiling beneath the grey moustache.

  I glared at him as the surge of instinctive panic ebbed.

  “Preparation, huh?” I grumbled. “You could’ve warned me.”

  He shrugged.

  “I did tell you we were both to undergo a wardrobe change,” he said. “But this is a worthwhile lesson nonetheless. Clothing, hair, and notable possessions”—he gestured with the cane—“can give you useful information, but they can also draw attention away from the person underneath them. However, that will have to wait. We really ought to be going.”

  We took the train into Manhattan.

  I’d tell you all about the first glimpse of the Big Apple I remember, but to be honest, I was paying too much attention to Alger by then to take in much of the scenery. He’d been right again. The disguise, including the convincing limp he put on to match the cane, was just a distraction from the man underneath them, who could navigate a crowd as naturally as a tomcat, keep one sharp eye ten steps ahead of us, and still make sure I was keeping up with him. I stole glances at him as we rode on the train, but the engine’s rumble and the roar of the passengers at the end of the work day made it too loud for me to ask him any more questions. Finally, as the train pulled into the Thirty-Fourth Street station, he leaned over to speak close to my ear.

  “This is our stop,” he told me. “And it’s also an illustration of the second principle of proper thievery: timing.”

  He tucked my arm into the crook of his elbow and pushed himself to his feet with the cane. The crowd grudgingly let us through, but as we approached the doors, I noticed that we were headed towards a fella who looked a hell of a lot like Alger did in his disguise. My fingers tightened on Alger’s elbow and I turned to say something, but he shook his head and I closed my mouth. We reached the doors at the same time as the other man, and as he finally noticed us, his eyes widened. The surprise stopped him in his tracks, and Alger stole the moment to step adroitly thought the doors, pulling me through just before the conductor sailed by and slammed the door briskly in the other man’s face.

  I gaped as the man on the train swore at the conductor, trying to push through the crowd to demand that he open the door again. But the conductor ignored him completely and moved on to the next car.

  “You see?” Alger said with a smirk. “Timing.”

  I wheeled around to face him, questions already overflowing.

  “He was the mark? But how? You didn’t even go near him! How did you know he would be there? And why did you—”

  “Excellent questions, to be sure,” he said, laughing, “all of which can be answered with reference to the first principle. But if we’re to make any use of the second, we can’t afford any further delay.”

  “But where are we going now?” I demanded, scrambling to keep up with his explanation and his route through the crowd as he turned to start down the sidewalk.

  “Where else?” he asked. “A bank.”

  Only a few blocks later, we were headed towards a broad stone building that loomed over a manicured plaza where the smart heels of the bank’s customers crunched on frosty pavement. As we approached the ornately carved doorway, I glanced hesitantly at Alger, slowing self-consciously.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go in there,” I said.

  Alger raised a false grey eyebrow.

  “This from the girl who had the temerity to steal from a thief in broad daylight only hours ago?”

  “That’s different,” I told him, hating the way my voice shrank as I glanced down at my battered shoes and pulled at a tangle of dark aubur
n hair spilling out from under my new hat. “You weren’t supposed to even notice me.”

  Alger stopped in the doorway and turned to face me, putting us nearly eye to eye. For the second time, I was sure I glimpsed kindness beneath his glib mask.

  “Well, my dear,” he said conspiratorially, “if you simply adhere to the third principle, none of these ladies or gentlemen will notice you either.”

  My tension eased a little and I felt a smile struggling its way onto my face.

  “What’s the third principle?”

  He flashed a wicked grin that no disguise could keep from being heart-stopping.

  “Confidence,” he said. “Now follow my lead.”

  He straightened and started toward the door and I grabbed his elbow again as we went inside.

  If I’d been daunted by the outside of the building, I was awed by the inside with its arched, painted ceilings and expansive marble floor. It looked like a palace, and I felt so out of place that if I hadn’t been holding onto Alger’s arm, I might’ve just turned and scrambled back out the door. Confidence, I reminded myself, squaring my shoulders and trying to imitate his easy, unconcerned stride and neutral expression as we approached the teller window. Act like you belong.

  It must have worked, because the teller didn’t even give me a second glance.

  “Mr. Averitt,” he said to Alger instead, smiling. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need to access my safe deposit box,” a voice said through Alger’s mouth in a perfect New York accent. I stared at him for a second before remembering that I wasn’t supposed to do that, and went back to trying to look indifferent.

  “Of course, Mr. Averitt,” said the teller. “Right this way.”

  He led the way around the corner to a room where an eager-looking guard about my age unlocked a heavy door. Another quick, polite exchange later, he left us alone with the guard, and Alger produced a small silver key from nowhere in particular.