The Five of Diamonds

The Difficulty

The DifficultyMorton and I left before Roy might arrive, neither of us wishing to see him that night. As we rode home in Molly’s carriage, I felt dismayed at what I’d learned. Smoking … drinking …?

I’d been a bad influence on her, it was clear.

And she couldn’t go on like this for much longer. If some homeowner didn’t shoot the girl, whoever she’d gotten involved with might. I hoped her parents could talk some sense into her.

By the time the carriage pulled up to my apartments, the normally dark, narrow street was bathed so brightly that I could read the sign beside my door:

Kaplan Private Investigations

Discreet Service For Ladies

Below it hung another:

Studio For Hire — Inquire Within

Blitz answered my knock, and we walked past him into the front hall. Not nearly as large or grand as that at Spadros Castle, but much more pleasant. Morton handed over the envelope, then the three of us went through the parlor and into the kitchen.

Blitz counted out the money onto the kitchen table, took off ten percent for our Family fees (he’d bring that to our street’s Family man in the morning), and split the rest between me and Morton.

Morton pocketed his share. “Good night, then.” He went into the back hall, closing the door behind him.

At the time, Morton was renting the back room. I felt glad that someone reliable stayed there after all that had happened.

Blitz said, “Was there much trouble?”

I sat at the table. “Roy and all his men were out looking for her.” At least we’d been able to keep this out of the public view. “Maybe she’ll settle down once her father’s done with her.”

Blitz sat heavily. “Good gods.”

I smiled to myself. “I don’t think he’ll hurt her. That girl might be the only thing the man’s ever loved.”

Blitz stared at the table for a moment, then abruptly raised his head. “Did you see the evening news?”

I shook my head. “What happened?”

“Helen Hart didn’t die naturally. She was poisoned.”

Poisoned? “Who — why would anyone do that?”

Blitz shrugged. “Just one more problem for the Families.”

“What do you mean?”

Blitz leaned back. “Well, you’ve been targeted. And the Spadros Family’s had its own share of trouble —”

Interesting, that he no longer placed himself in the Family. When my husband Tony ordered his men to beat Blitz a year ago, it must have affected Blitz more than I’d thought.

“— and from what you’ve told me, the Clubbs are in a turmoil. Plus the mess Cesare Diamond’s gotten himself into. And now this.” His eyes narrowed. “But it’s a good question. Who benefits from Helen Hart’s death?”

“Surely not the Harts. They have no heir, unless someone can be persuaded to marry that weird old Etienne.”

Blitz chuckled. “He’s an odd one.”

I leaned an elbow on the table. “Are they sure it was murder?”

Blitz gave a one-shoulder shrug. “The coroner sent tests to Azimoff. I’m pretty sure they’re sure.”

I went to my room, stunned, appalled. Why would someone murder the Lady of Hart?

I hoped no one thought we did it.

The Spadros Family had no alliance with the Harts: Roy Spadros hated Charles Hart as much as I’d ever seen any man hate another.

Technically, we weren’t even at cease-fire with them. With the position of our quadrants, though, we couldn’t mount an effective attack on Hart without the aid of the Clubbs, who apparently didn’t want war.

Blitz softly played my piano in the hall. He’d do that, nights. He said it was to help us sleep, but I think he just loved to play.

I tried to sleep, yet something bothered me. Tony and I had gone into Hart quadrant many a time. We’d been made welcome.

Why?

* * *

Early the next day, my housekeeper Mary brought in the morning edition of the Bridges Daily, my mail, and my tray — toast, jelly, the tonic for my liver ailment, and my “morning tea.”

My Ma told me this was actually called blood tea, but of course I couldn’t let anyone know that. The tea kept me from bearing children — these days, a precaution against attack more than anything else.

I’d never wanted any man besides Joseph Kerr.

Except the night I’d gladly bedded my husband Tony.

I should never have let myself love him.

“My husband thought you might want to see this too.” Mary handed over the front section of the evening news.

“Thanks. I hope you’re well?”

Mary Spadros was two and twenty with light brown hair, married to Blitz and nine months with child. She patted her belly. “We’re both quite well.” She twitched a bit. “Keeps kicking.”

“That’s a good sign.” Growing up in a brothel as I did, I heard many bits of baby lore over the years.

Mary patted her belly. “You’ll be out soon enough.”

I snorted. Yowling at all hours wasn’t what I had in mind when I moved here.

“I know, mum. A baby, now ...”

I reached up and took her hand. “I’m only ever happy for you. Truly. I never meant to make you think otherwise.”

Mary gave me a warm smile. “Think nothing of it.” Then she said to her belly, “We best get back before our breakfast burns!”

I lit a cigarette, then drank my bitter tonic as I read the article about Mrs. Helen Hart. It seemed ghoulish to test the poor woman so long after she lay dead.

Inventor Etienne Hart seemed a strange man. Yet his determination to learn what happened to his wife impressed me. If I’d been murdered, I’d want someone to learn who did it.

Setting down the paper, I stretched lazily, surveying my room. I’d become so sick after stripping the wallpaper from Blitz and Mary’s room after their misdeal that I decided to paint instead. The white walls were now a rich forest green. I’d sanded the furniture, moldings, and banisters in the hall and stained them to match the dark cherry-wood desk in my study. The silver fixtures had been sold, one by one, and replaced with brass.

It’d taken me months. But it helped me not to think of that dreadful night outside the Old Plaza.

I don’t think I shall ever forget it.

Setting aside the previous night’s news, I raised the morning paper. Spadros Inventor Maxim Call held a shovel in his wrinkled brown hands, apparently engaged in digging!

TRAIN CRISIS: DAY 35

Dismay And Turmoil

The Inventors and their Tinkerer’s Guild have worked around the clock to learn why the trains slowed to a stop thirty-five days ago. Vast amounts of digging has taken place to learn the exact location and structure of the train’s power lines.

Yet the fact that this must be done has led to dismay.

Mr. Valentine Lahire of Hart quadrant said, “Why didn’t they know how the trains were run in the first place? Were we being put into danger?”

The outage has caused more than dismay. Whilst usage of taxi service is at an all-time high, not enough taxi-carriages exist to move workers to and from the zeppelin station, much less care for our usual tourism. Many station workers now sleep in the station, or camp upon the premises. The last of those vacationing families stranded in the countryside have been brought home, yet many vow to sue the city for damages.

The availability of taxi-carriages throughout the city proper has dropped, leaving quadrant-folk high and low unable to travel to their destinations. Commerce has suffered. Unemployment has risen. Transportation of goods continues, yet many drivers complain of hangers-on and harassment by those begging to ride.

Your Families urge you to remain calm. Please contact your neighborhood official if you need assistance. Those wishing to aid in the effort should contact your local Tinkerer’s Guild office.

The situation was worse than I’d thought. That the Bridges Daily should mention the Families was unprecedented. Not even the Golden Bridges, a notorious tabloid, dared to do so.

The Golden Bridges had collapsed after Tony’s speech a year prior. A dozen sprung up in its place, all competing for attention. No story seemed too wild to print these days.

One of my informants sent this one, the True Story, with an article circled:

ONE HUNDREDTH DIAMOND PROTEST

Citizens march outside Diamond Manor

Protesters marched in Diamond quadrant today, marking one hundred in recent history. Signs with slogans such as “Fear Imperils Commerce,” and “Security Has Gone Too Far,” urged an end to the isolation from the rest of Bridges. Yet others such as “Die Before Ally” show the depth of animosity between Diamond and Spadros quadrants.

The Constabulary have kept the protesters at safe distance from Diamond Manor. Yet this challenge to their Heir suggests Diamond rule over the quadrant may be weakening. What this means for the stability of the city as a whole is uncertain.

Had one of the members of the Golden Bridges fled to this paper after Major Blackwood’s murder? The writing seemed similar.

A knock at my bedroom door startled me. Mary said, “Breakfast is ready.”

When I entered the kitchen, Morton was already eating. I sat across from him. “Early day?”

He swallowed, nodding, then wiped his mouth. “Something that butler said last night. He used to know Sheinwold.”

“Oh?”

“He hasn’t seen him. But what he said reminded me: Sheinwold used to take his kids to the river for the summer. Up in Clubb quadrant, near Bath. Chances are someone there knows him. I think I can get an invitation into the quadrant.”

“Karla Bettelmann might be willing to speak for you.”

Karla Bettelmann and I had spent some time together over Yuletide. She’d been entirely unaware that her father led a group agitating against her grandfather Alexander Clubb, Patriarch of the Clubb Family. More to the point: they planned assassination, of both Mr. Alexander and his son, Master Lance.

Mr. Alexander had eliminated Karla’s father, along with several other of her relatives. Yuletide had been dismal for us both.

Morton smiled to himself. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He took a long drink of his tea and set the empty cup down. “What are your plans today?”

“I need to understand how Katherine Spadros, of all people, is fencing jewelry in the Pot. Who her contacts are. What hold they have over her.” I let out a breath, feeling shaky. What Katie did was incredibly dangerous. “And I need to find us another case.”

Since our bargain the year prior, my lawyer Mr. Doyle Pike had been sending us both cases and letters of recommendation. When I brought him his cut of my earnings to help pay what I owed him, I’d see what he or his investigator Mr. Jake Bower (who lived close by) needed done.

The front bell rang; Mary went to answer it.

I speared some scrambled eggs with my fork. “You say Sheinwold took his children to Bath for the summer. How does a police detective have money for that?”

Morton let out a short laugh. “He’d been working for the Spadros Family on the side before he became an Associate. The man had all kinds of money.”

He probably had all kinds of enemies as well. “And you’re sure he’s still alive.”

“I have to hope, Mrs. Spadros. He trusted me. I told Zia about him, and now he’s on the run. I have to help him if I can.” He stared at the table, face grim. “If he’s dead, I might as well be.”

The Feds thought Morton killed Zia. Albert Sheinwold was the only witness to the truth: the former Federal Agent Zia Cashout had been turned by the Red Dog Gang. So far, she’d killed everyone who might be able to identify her as a Fed except Sheinwold and Morton.

Zia and Morton had worked together as private investigators for years. It was only when the Feds accused Morton of killing her did he even know she worked for the Bureau. “The last time I saw Zia was a couple years ago on Market Center. If I see her again —”

“Bring her in. She’s only good to me alive.”

That might be difficult to do. The last time I saw her she’d tried to kill me. She came close to succeeding.

Yet she claimed he tried to kill her. Perhaps she meant to ruin Morton as well. “What could she possibly have against you?”

Morton shrugged, glanced away. “Whether because our parents knew each other, or what, I’ve always thought she felt compelled to work with me, rather —”

“Than it being her idea.”

“Yes.”

“What of her parents? Where are they? Have they seen her?”

Mary came in and began washing pots.

Morton wouldn’t meet my eye. “They died some time back.”

Dread rose within me. “Did you kill them?”

He faced me, eyes wide and startled. “Of course not! What sort of man do you take me for?”

Mary’s face turned disapproving.

I raised my hand. “If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here. It’s just … I want to understand what happened between you. Why she’s trying to kill you. Ruin your name. If I could understand that, perhaps I might know how to make her see reason.”

As a child in the Pot, I’d been trained to kill Federal Agents on sight. And the Feds were no friend to the Spadros Family. But Morton needed Zia alive. If I could stop their feud, perhaps more death might be avoided.

Morton spoke slowly, head down. “Men like Frank Pagliacci seem to be able to put — if I weren’t a rational man, I’d say a spell — on people. He can say anything, do anything, and she’ll follow. I’ve tried talking to her.” He pushed his plate aside, put his elbows on the table, his face in his hands. “I don’t know if anything will stop her, short of death.”

And it grieved him. “I’m sorry.”

He lowered his hands, turned his head away. “I’m sorry, too.” Then he turned to me. “Mark my words: I’m good. But Zia Cashout is very good.” He glanced at Mary, then back at me. “She frightens me. Unless I’m extraordinarily lucky —” he let out an ironic chuckle, “— or perhaps, unlucky — she’ll be the one who kills me.”