“Not on that front,” said Cross. “But the rest’ll be a tougher sell. It’ll be a lot harder to travel abroad. Lot of paperwork, and you’ll have to get bureau approval and a permit. Hope you weren’t looking to go on holiday.”
Cyril put his face in his hands. “Queen’s sake.”
“It’s not her you oughta be praying to.” Cross checked her watch—she wore it at the wrist, like a soldier. “‘Tits. I gotta get moving.”
He waved her off. “Of course. Thanks again. It’s good to talk to somebody who clocks me.”
“Anytime.” She swallowed the last of her whiskey, picked up her briefcase, and slipped her straw cloche into place. “See you around.”
*
On the top floor of a vacant office building in the northeastern quarter of the city, Aristide waited for Cross. He sat with one hip hitched up on a sawhorse, trying not to check his watch. He’d already looked at it twice in the last five minutes.
She was late. Very late. And he was worried. He needed the papers she was bringing, for himself and several clients, and he knew of no other way he could get them.
Just as he reached for his watch again, he heard the stairs squeak. He put his hand on the pistol holstered under his arm. Half a minute later there was a knock on the door—two long scratches, four quick taps. Cross’s signal. Rendezvous four. It was her.
Aristide twisted the lock. The open door revealed Cross in a high-collared summer jacket and a cloche pulled low over her forehead. The brim cast concealing shadows across her face. He shut the door behind her and relocked it, then turned to watch her pick her way through construction debris. Though the streetlights would keep anyone from seeing in the single window, she stayed well away from the glass.
“You’re late,” he said. “What happened?”
“Friend in need,” she said. “Cy wanted to jaw a minute. He looks like a steaming pile these days. Couldn’t say no.”
“My, my,” he said, carefully bland. She was baiting him. “I have missed your … c-c-colorful language.” If Cyril looked bad he was probably drinking too much. And not sleeping.
Cross snorted, like she hadn’t noticed his evasion. “Nice to see you too, Mack.”
“Mr. Lourdes’s reports are very thorough,” he said, relenting and kissing her cheek, “b-b-but there’s nothing like the genuine article.”
“Nice boy. Is all that bumbling and sweetness honest, d’you think, or an act? If he’s putting it on, I’m impressed.”
“I think Mr. Lourdes is much sharper than he seems, at first blush.”
“Blush,” said Cross, and laughed—a single, blunt sound. “He does do that. Anyhow, lucky you. Wish Cy’d play matchmaker for me.”
“P-P-Please, Merrilee. I make my own matches.”
“Speaking of.” She pulled a crumpled cigarette from the pocket of her slacks and lit it. The pop of the struck lucifer was loud in the hush of the vacant building. Exhaling a draconian plume, she said, “He’s come in rotten handy, Mr. Lourdes.”
Aristide relished the irony. Cyril had used Finn so casually as an entrée to the Bee, after his own treachery had curtailed his freedom of movement. Now Aristide was turning the trick around on him. Slight guilt, of course, for making pliable Finn into a tool, but desperate times and all that. “Did you have any trouble getting the papers?”
Cross laid her briefcase across the sawhorse and unlocked the catch, revealing a slim folio and a block of gray putty. She handed the folio to Aristide, who flipped it open and smoothed his hand over the blank travel permits.
“They were a breath to snatch,” she said. “There’s loads of ’em lying all over the place.”
“Gorgeous,” he said. “Did you manage to get a good impression of the new seal?”
She pulled the block of putty from her briefcase. “You’ll have to find a printer to work up a proper stamp. These don’t have Krahe’s signature or anything. I did get a sample, though. Do you have somebody with a steady hand?”
Aristide tucked the folio into his jacket. “I know just the person, yes.”
*
Zelda Peronides had gone to ground in a warehouse at the worse end of the harbor—not far from Central’s dockside facilities, if Cyril was to be believed. Aristide hoped she was keeping a low profile—with Culpepper in the trap, who knew what sort of person was running the Foxhole these days.
He found her in the foreman’s office overlooking the echoing cargo hangar. She was living there, and hadn’t left for days, probably. Balled-up napkins and grease-stained bags littered her desk. The smell of stale coffee and sleep sweat lingered in the stifling space. Zelda herself, usually so glamorous, had replaced her silk and velvet with a sleeveless jersey dress in brick red. The color would have suited her, if she weren’t so wan and haggard.
“Ari, darling.” She’d been chain smoking—her voice was dry. “How nice to see you. It’s been ages. Not the best time, though.”
He kissed both her cheeks. “I need to falsify some documents.”
Her frown was delicate. “I’d like to be tactful, darling, but you’re wretched at forgery.”
“Yes, but your p-p-people are very good.”
“Flatterer.” She smiled, catlike, and a little of her old pizzazz sparked back into her expression. “They’re also very expensive.”