“Because I know why you’re here.”
Cyril’s stomach dropped to the floor, but Berhooven went on. “Konrad’s been after all of us to bring you round. Woo you like a courtesan after favors from the queen. The Ospies have the people’s support in the north and the east, but the people don’t have money. The mill owners here can give a little, but not enough—if they could give, they wouldn’t need Acherby in office.”
“And this is how you’re going to convince me?” asked Cyril, raising his voice over the first yelping minor chords of Berhooven’s requested Chuli jig. “A few pints of beer in a regionalist pub, and a tragic love story?”
“Nonsense,” said Berhooven. “I just want to make sure you have a good time.”
“So you’re not advocating for the regionalist cause?”
Berhooven’s offended scoff was just this side of farcical. “Mr. Landseer. Only think how that would look to our friends uptown. I’d be drummed out of business.”
The use of his work name threw Cyril for a moment. In the din of the pub, under the glittering swathes of mirrored stars, he had almost forgotten who he was supposed to be.
*
His reports to Culpepper started out optimistic, but took a turn for the frustrated as the unionists continued to dance around. They were solicitous, but wouldn’t confide; Pollerdam came up in conversation repeatedly. Cyril began to understand that the absent mill owner was Landseer’s opposite number, another set of deep pockets whose compunctions might not keep him from contributing. If he gave, and took the edge off of the Ospie’s hunger, Cyril might lose leverage. So far, he’d stayed in the north and kept to himself, but as the weeks dragged on without development, Cyril’s anxiety intensified. He wanted this done. He wanted to incriminate the lot of them and get back home.
He was dressing for a fundraiser gala when he got the telegram. The party was a last-minute affair, ostensibly pooling money for a big publicity push in the final week of election season. Rumor had it Pollerdam was finally due down, and there were hints he might be generous.
One of the hotel staff knocked on his door as he was tugging his cuffs into place. When he answered, she handed him an onionskin paper, folded and sealed.
“Wire for you, sir,” she said, and clicked her heels. He tipped her and waved her off.
Hotel bar Stop fifteen minutes Stop Rye Soda End
To an ignorant reader, “Rye soda” might have read as a drink order, but in truth it was one of Cyril’s call signs. He hurried to fit his cufflinks into place, checked his bow tie in the mirror, and went downstairs.
At the bar he ordered—what else?—a rye and soda, and waited for his contact to find him. It must be important; they’d never met in person. Usually he dropped his reports for the other agent—man or woman, he didn’t know—to pick up and relay.
“Well, you are a fine one.” The voice was low and rough with smoke. “Their descriptions didn’t do you justice.”
He turned and found a woman of generous proportions on the stool beside him. She was girdled into a perfect hourglass, the brown expanse of her bosom marked with a single beauty spot.
“Hello,” he said. “Buy you a drink?” There was a slim chance she wasn’t the person he was waiting for, but after so many years, you got a feeling for it. Even rusty from his time out of the field, Cyril was close to certain.
“A gin fizz will do all right.”
Cyril put the order in.
“Listen,” she said, while the rattle of the cocktail shaker drowned her out. “Pollerdam’s not going to give you any trouble now. His money’s staying in his pocket. They wanted me to tell you.” The bartender deposited her cocktail on a folded napkin and moved on.
“Is he…?”
She shook her head and sipped her drink.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not exactly free all night.”
“Culpepper put the squeeze on him,” she said. “Got a couple big buyers in Amberlough threatening to cut their orders. He’s not going to give the Ospies anything. Got me?”
“I do indeed.” He toasted her, and drained his glass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to attend.”
*
Cyril didn’t have much luck at the fundraiser. Not until Van der Joost caught him in the foyer, near the doors. “Mr. Landseer. Off so soon? You’ll miss supper.”
Cyril forced a smile. “Headache coming on,” he said, tapping his forehead. “Thought I’d go out for a little air.”
Van der Joost linked arms with him, without asking. “Let’s you and I abandon ship. What do you say? Ms. Linsky’s spread of hors d’oeuvres wasn’t anything to fuss over, and I don’t imagine the meal will do much to redeem her.”
Trying not to let his sudden interest show, Cyril gave in to the gentle pressure on his arm and went with Van der Joost into the street.